The Chronicle of the Luna's Curse
by Josh Gordon
Summary: A tale of High-seas action and adventure wherein we accompany Mad Logan and his crew of shapeshifter miscreants on their various journeys. From Thailand to the New Zealand territories and beyond, they elude and encounter vengeance obsessed pirates, power mad mages, bloodthirsty vampires, and a power unlike any that has been seen since the Elder Days.
1. The Final Voyage of the Stone Rose

From the Journals of Captain Alfred MacDowell,  
Silver Fang Ahroun  
Her Majesty's Royal Navy  
The Year 1728

The 3rd day of March  
Port Derring, Australia Territory

This is the fourth week we have spent in dock. My men and I are anxious to be on our way, but the magistrate has taken it into his head that I am still unfit for duty. While his concern for my welfare may be a fine gesture, it is also an unnecessary one. The moon is no longer full, and I need not fear the Rage until next she shines. The ship is fully stocked, my men are ready and they long for the sea. I will petition the magistrate personally tomorrow; surely father will see reason by then.

The 4th day of March  
Port Derring, Australia Territory

At last! I have been granted permission to sail tomorrow! My men and I are elated - we will be out for a full fortnight; After taking on light supplies for tomorrow, we are free! We are to arrive in New Zealand by the 10th and acquire a shipment of the mineral that is unique to this island only. We will have two days to spend in port there, though I imagine the men will probably prefer to weigh anchor for an extra day on the return journey. As long as we accomplish our goal, I see no reason that their request should be denied. To the islands! We are going to visit the savages!

The 5th of March  
En Route to the New Zealand Territory

What began as good spirits quickly turned foul – the weather became dismal as we left port, and we have sailed in a pissing rain since then. The men are hopeful, stalwart in their belief that good weather is on its way. They tell me this ship is a lucky one, and has never had a voyage without the sun on its sails. I don't tell them that my own abysmal luck could more than account for the breaking of that record, though I sincerely hope that they are right.

The 7th of March  
En Route to the New Zealand Territory

What began as a poor spirited rain has become a driving tempest. The winds became so fierce that the rigging was damaged. While it was quickly repaired, it is only a brutish jury-rig that holds it all together. Despite this, the ship is stable and our course is set. We are well on our way, and right on schedule. The men are strained, but they operate like the well oiled machine that the Queen's Navy has been trained to do. I decided to open an extra cask of ale tonight, and to enjoy a bottle of my own among the crew. They were delighted in my company (or so it seemed) and the extra drink seemed to smooth over any grudges any of them may have had. I shared my bottle among the men as well, and this produced much respect from the more surly types. There was much interest over my blade, which I failed to remove before I left my quarters. I was reluctant to show it fully, but they pressed so that I could not avoid it without arousing suspicion. While the prospect of a crew member recognizing the Glyphs is ludicrous, a blade with such designs is oft recounted to others that may. Indeed, they marveled at the blade, asking me who had made it. I told them truthfully that I did not know, for it is an heirloom that has been handed down through my family without source or explanation for its appearance. When one crewman ventured after the meaning of the strange symbols, I explained it to be a family crest, and all seemed satisfied. Father would be furious if he knew; I can only hope that the crew considers this an amusing eccentricity of the ranked officers and says nothing of it.

The 8th of March  
En route to the New Zealand Territory

Damn the night watch, their misplaced jealousy is going to drown us all!  
During the merriment that they missed, they decided to shirk their responsibilities for a drink of their own in the barracks. They insist they intended to return, but intentions can pave their path down the bloody plank! I promised them five lashes in the square when we return. Perhaps it was my fault, I should have been more attentive to the goings on of my crew. I resolve not to become lost in my own reverie again; I shall be vigilant. I must, now more than ever, for we have been blown off course during the night. We will be arriving in port three days late at least, and supplies will have to be rationed; We will surely run out of ale now. I fear that there will soon be much displeasure among the men. I only hope that they do not fault me for my freedom with its use at the beginning of the voyage.

The days are turning dark in more ways than one, I fear, for there is one among us who is like me. Upon my door this evening I found sketched in charcoal on my door the very symbol that is on my blade…and a message writ in the Language! It simply said "I Know. Me Too."  
I cannot tell if this is benign or a threat, but I shall remain vigilant until I am certain of either this person's identity or intentions.

The 12th of March  
En Route to the New Zealand Territories

The weather remained vile until last night, when it turned nothing short of savage. The winds whipped the sea into such a frenzy that the forward deck was flooded to the knee. The rigging finally gave way, killing one of our number and tearing the forward sail in two, taking the larger part with it on its way to the depths. As the storm reached its peak, a large wave knocked three men overboard into the hellish sea. I feared them lost, but one of them had managed to use his knife to catch the hull of the ship, and was somehow hanging on to it with main strength, the other soldiers dangling from his free arm. They were quickly hauled up and it was discovered that only two had survived – one of them was missing his lower half. They were both taken below to the sick bay while the corpse was wrapped in a sheet. We managed to stabilize the boat just as morning broke, and with the sunlight seemed to come the final calming of that horrible gale. I ordered what repairs could be done and descended to sick bay to see to the injured personally. Miraculously, neither was truly injured. The savior of the three was strained and scraped a bit, but otherwise unharmed. His companion, however, did not seem so lucky. He was much the same, but his mind had succumbed to dementia. He kept speaking about sea monsters – I assume he means the large sharks that are said to dominate the waters off the coast. I suppose this explains the other's death. I went back above decks to oversee the last of the possible repairs, then ordered everyone to their bunks for rest. We shall find our way once we have all rested.

The 13th of March  
Adrift off the coast of New Zealand  
We have been blown entirely off course and are utterly lost.  
The damage to the ship was disastrous – we must make port immediately. I ordered that all available materials be used to ensure an effective sail, and set a course for the nearest coastline we can see. We will beach and attempt to repair the boat.

The 15th of March  
Fortune has favored us with a grim smile, and we have managed to make land. We made a search for any signs of assistance, but found no-one. The repairs to the ship have begun, using what materials we have and what we can gather from the surrounding woods. I have sent a small hunting party out to forage for local edible flora and fauna, perhaps that will keep our stomachs satisfied until the ship is ready.

The 16th of March  
We have been visited by the savages. During the afternoon repairs, a team of five savages stepped from the woods and demanded an explanation of our presence. The savages wore only a wrap garment around their waists and are covered from head to toe in crude tattoos. Their weaponry was primitive, consisting of clubs and spears. The men were wary, but our translator spoke for the savages and set the men's mind at ease. I explained about the storm, and this they laughed at, saying that only a fool would sail during the storm season. They told us to follow them. As we are at the mercy of the island, we are at the mercy of its inhabitants, however distasteful.

The 17th of March  
Helpful though they be, these people are truly savage! They scarcely wear any garments, and I hesitate to speak of their grooming habits. Suffice to say they are few and far between. They are fierce and feral, ready to fight at the slightest provocation. Their fighting is full of pride and posturing, with little form or control. They take the most pride in the green stones they find, which is the very same mineral we are to ship! I daren't imagine what would happen if we had been laden with cargo. Surely they would have exacted the cargo as compensation for their help. As it is, we have nothing to bargain with. I wonder what they truly intend for us. Our translator assures me we are safe, but I have my misgivings. I have heard these people eat their fallen enemies- I must wonder if we are considered enemies. If so, I will be sure that we do not fall. Several of the crew have taken to mixing with the savage warriors, they insist this is to learn how they fight. This I do not understand, for clubs and spears are the simplest of weapons and their fighting is completely undisciplined. It is strength, not skill, that drive these things.

The 18th of March  
There was a note today, in my pocket. Placed there. I have no idea when or how. It was the same hand that drew the Glyph in charcoal on my cabin door the night of the storm. It was also writ in the Language, and was just as terse as before. "Meet Me. Midnight. Shipside. I can help." Is this a truce or a trap? I have no way of knowing who – or what – might meet me there. The offer is help, and it is one of the crew. I suppose I will take my chances.  
To the ship I shall go. I will pick up my pen upon my return.

The night has become stranger still, and I am unsure if it is the savages sending spirits to confuse our senses or the talents of the mysterious benefactor. Either instance disturbs me, I prefer not to speculate further. Our conspirator friend is none other than Logan, the stout red-bearded fellow from the ranked men. He's a fine soldier, if somewhat slovenly. I was initially wary, demanding his intentions. He explained that he was one of Luna's Children and that I had nothing to fear from me. Despite his common manner, he was genuine in his desire to help. He spoke as curtly as he wrote, but indicated that he and I together could do much for the repairs in our forms. I agreed, and we began to work. The work was swift, and we accomplished the work of two days in just a few hours. He insisted upon walking back with me, despite the fact that his tent was on the other end of the encampment. He was silent the entire walk, despite my occasional inquiry about one thing or another. When we reached my hut, I questioned him as to the explanation we should provide for the mysterious repairs. It was at this point the discord began; He believed that the savages should be given the credit, whilst I do not see the sense in allowing them any more leverage than they already have. More importantly, the very idea that the pride of the Queen's Navy would be lazing about whilst these heathens did their job for them…I refuse to use such a foul explanation. We bandied the solution about for a few minutes until I finally conceded – I could think of no other story that was as plausible. He assured me that he could explain the situation to the savages and that they would act accordingly. He was satisfied and left soon thereafter, refusing my offers of drink and hospitality. While his intentions seem to be good, I suspect other devices within his mind.

The 18th of March  
The story was spread, and true to their word, the savages took credit for the overnight work. They found this cause for celebration, and there is apparently to be a feast before we set out in the morning. I remain, as always, skeptical of the savages. There will be a price; these things do nothing for free.

The treacherous bastard! I was correct in assuming they would extract a price. I am told they wish us to take one of the savages along with us! The very idea of a savage, on MY ship... I have no recourse! There WILL BE a savage on my ship! Damn the savages, and damn that red-bearded rapscallion and his underhanded plans. I do not know how he gains from this, but I will find out! I will expose his treachery and have him lashed to within an inch of his last breath! The savage will not remain long in my company after his benefactor is removed from the picture.

The 19th of March  
En Route to the New Zealand Territories  
We cast off with little ceremony this morning. The savage was given makeshift quarters in the brig according to my orders, and the men were swift with their preparations. We cast off before the sun was fully in the sky, and our journey should be a quick one. According to the Navigations Officer's calculations, we will arrive in port by the break of tomorrow's dawn. We will be able to completely restore the ship once we reach port, and I will find a way to be rid of that Savage. Tonight I will search Logan's quarters to find proof of his treachery; I have assigned him to the night watch. I have gone to the savage that is kept in the brig. I attempted speech, but its as an animal, issuing vague grunts in lieu of replies. I will glean nothing useful from it; it is of no use to me.

It is just past the midnight hour, and I have returned empty handed from my search. I will not give up.

The 20th of March  
Port  
New Zealand Territory

At last, we have arrived in civilized areas! The cobblestone walkways of the port remind me of home despite the unfamiliar streets they pave. I have commissioned the repairs to be made on the _Rose _and to resupply for a month's journey – No chance of running out of supplies in an emergency, and I think the men could use a few extra barrels of the finest. The magistrate can foot the bill. I go to speak with him this very afternoon. We will receive our shipment of the mineral and be off, back to the comforts of home and hearth.

I have been given orders to take a prisoner to the facility North of Port Royal for Transportation. This is utter foolishness. I must now give crew quarters to the savage. I have ordered a bunk to be made available for it. The men took it better than I would have. They made the transfer while I was ashore, speaking with the magistrate about the condition of my ship. Upon my return, it was working on deck with the crew. I swear, for a moment I heard that voice speaking english words to the Redbeard. When I listened closer, I heard no more, but I am certain I heard it! I will discover their purpose! They had found a uniform to fit it, and as much as it disgusted me to see the Royal Colors on that feral form, needs must when the devil drives. The brig is now empty and ready to receive the prisoner. A locked chest with the prisoner's effects arrived during my shore leave; He will brought aboard just before castoff at daybreak. The cargo has been loaded and checked by the Port Authority, so I shall be using the night to my advantage. Luna will watch over me tonight; Though my deed is an ignoble one my intentions are only the best. I will spy on the two on the midnight watch, Logan and the Savage.

They may be savage, but they are not fools! They knew of my plan and were waiting for me. They called me out the moment I stepped foot on deck, I did not even have the time to make use of the Inheritance. I approached them directly, ordering the savage to speak in what he did know of our language. I was correct; it was stilted, but it was English. It did not speak it so much as chew it. It told me to keep my eyes and ears where they belong, or they may get mistaken for food. The Redbeard simply laughed. I told them to keep to their duty before I decided they were more weight than they were worth. I decided not to pursue the matter further this evening. I can learn more when we are at sea; They will have no place to go.

The 21st of March  
En Route to the Australia Territories  
The prisoner was a quiet fellow, tall, of Persian descent. When I inquired as to the purpose of his arrest, I was told he had attempted to assassinate a local Clergyman. I decided not to ask further, and we cast off without any incident. We are to arrive at the Trasportation Facility in less than a fortnight, then it is but two days journey home. For once, I look forward to a nice, long shore leave. I am now resolute to change my entire crew upon completion of this mission. I do not wish to remember this voyage.

The 25th of March  
I have it! I have devised a way to be rid of both thorns in my side! I finally came upon something of value in my searches – In Logan's room I found a book in the Language! Upon examination, the pages held the instructions for several Rites, including the creation of a Fetish. I was immediately stricken with the idea, and checked his bureau for the one thing that would make my plan work – and my luck was good for the first time in weeks. The makings of several fetishes lie in the drawers, none of them finished. I put everything back in its proper place and hurried back. I am going to discover which night he will next attempt the Rite; I will have a small regiment of men waiting to apprehend him for Witchcraft. With several eyewitnesses, there will be no doubt of guilt! Why did I not think of this sooner?

The 28th of March  
After days of listening to every scrap of every conversation the Redbeard has been in, I have finally deduced the night of his downfall. Tomorrow is the Full Moon, the night of the Auspice. The night he plans to perform his Rite. I will gather my six best men, and the bastard will dance a gallows jig before the next day dawns.


	2. Logan's Account

The stranger stepped into the pub and was greeted by a cloud of foul smelling smoke from the table nearest the door. After a brief coughing fit, he straightened and shuffled further into the room. He left his hood up, shadowing his face from view. His clothing was simple and nondescript, of the type one would see on eastern monks. He slipped between the tables like a shade, drawing no attention from the raucous guests. Finding the table he sought, he addressed the pair that were seated next to large mugs of a frothy, caustic-looking substance.

"You are Logan, are you not?"

The stout red-bearded fellow drained his goblet, belched, then spoke.

"I might be. Then again, he might be." He said, jerking a thumb in the direction of his companion, who was eyeing the stranger with an iron gaze.

"And he's in a pretty bad mood, so you'd better hope it's me. Who might you be?"  
The stranger spoke in a gentle voice that was obviously used to being obeyed.

"You may call me Kiral. I am here on behalf of Lord Morningkill to discuss an urgent matter of justice." Logan eyed the stranger carefully, gauging the honesty of his intentions. When he was satisfied, he nodded and gestured to the empty space at the table.

"Well then, being as you're so important that you need our time, you can pay for our drinks as we talk." he leaned back in his chair and whistled to the fellow behind the bar, who loaded three mugs onto a tray and set them on the table almost before the echo of the whistle died away

"It appears I have no choice."  
Kiral reached into a small pouch and produced a handful of gold coins. He dropped three of them into the outstretched hand of the bartender. The bald man bit the coin, then strode back to his station at the bar to attend to his other customers.

As Kiral took his seat, he placed a small pile of coins in the middle of the table. Logan eyed them.

"And those are?" he ventured.

"For you, if you will tell me what I wish to hear." replied Kiral.

"And that would be?"

"I wish to know about the final voyage of the Stone Rose."

Logan grinned widely.

"So this is about the captain?" he said.

Kiral nodded.

"We have reason to believe that he has broken the litany. I am merely ascertaining the truth of the matter. Is our arrangement... acceptable?"

Logan grinned again and pulled out a small pipe and began to load it.

"I suppose so." He pulled a candle from the holder in the center of the table and lit his pipe, enshrouding the table in a thick, blue cloud. He waved the smoke away and sat back, taking a long drink from his cup before settling in to begin his story.

"That was one strange journey, and no mistake about it. From the minute I heard we had another one of those useless cargo-ferryin' jobs I knew i was going to have to do something to spice the trip up. i thought i was going to have trouble with it, but fate was kind enough to present me with endless opportunities for amusement. Not two days out of port was when the idea hatched. "

"All of us enlisted men were having a drink that night in the galley (save for the two poor fools on watch), and who should show up but the Captain himself. He'd ordered extra barrels opened and shared his bottle (of which most became mine). The captain was in quite a merry mood, and after he'd had a few pints of shoggoth's, he became drunk enough to drop his guard overmuch. There was some talk over the captain's sword, and in truth i didn't really care; however, when the blade was drawn and i realized its true nature i was dumbstruck. it was a gorram Klaive, friend, and an old one at that!"

"A Klaive? How could you be sure?" kiral asked.  
Logan snorted disdainfully.

"Even a lost cub can tell a Klaive when he sees it. Glyphs all over the damn things. Now don't interrupt me again if you want me to finish. I lose my momentum easily. Now where was I? Oh, yes, the klaive. I had no real need to ask him about the glyphs, but another crew member satisfied my own curiosity by asking my question for me. The captain gave some false answer that satisfied the crew. The captain was definitely one of ours, and a silver fang to boot. And when it comes to silver fangs, there's only three things you need to remember – they're Snooty, rich, and generally spoiled worse than last year's grog. Speaking of that..."  
Logan grimaced into his drink.

"Tastes about like last year's."  
He drained the last of it and gestured to the bartender once more.

"Ho there, Mac! Three more!"  
The bartender performed his ritual with practiced speed, and was once again rewarded with the tall man's gold. logan took great swig from his mug.

"Much better. Now then, where was I? Ah yes. I decided I would make myself known to the captain, see how he took that. I left a note on his door (I didn't tell him who I was, mind you) and figured I'd let him sweat 'til we hit port. Figured I'd buy him a pint when I came clean. Anyway, the weather was bad, and a few days later the storm turned rotten. Hell, things got so bad me a two other guys got thrown into the sea. I shifted into glabro and managed to get two and a half of us back in the boat. Got lucky to do **that**. Hurt like hell, let me tell you."

KIral tilted his head in a quizzical fashion.

"Two and a half?" he asked.

Logan roared with laughter.

"Aye, as in only half of him made it back!"  
Logan took another hit of his pipe and exhaled, the smoke coming out in rings and puffs as he chuckled.

"Back to it, then. The ship was all kinds of banged up, and we drifted for a while. When we made landfall, the captain set me to a team that was to scout for any signs of savages or civilization. Can't say I was unhappy – I wanted to meet those islanders. I'd heard a lot, but never seen one. Figured I'd have more in common with them than my fellows. We saw neither hide nor hair of anyone but each other until the next day."

"The next afternoon, the natives made their presence known. Funniest thing I'd seen in all my years. We were working on the repairs when five of the loudest, bluest, and by-damn **Nudest **people I'd ever seen crashed through the brushes with a cry that would've scared the wyrm back into its hole."

The islander snorted, then spoke in a voice so deep that it was more properly felt than heard.

"Not nude." He said, tersely.

"To them you were. Nothing but that blue skirt of yours on. Seeing the Pride of the queen's navy scared flat on their bellies by five naked blue guys with sticks was a sight. Anyway, the translator kept his head and managed to start them talking. After some time, the captain ordered that camp be packed up and we follow the islanders. Not too many complaints from the crew, as any help was welcome at this point. We followed them to their village, where they set up huts for the soldiers and a special one for the captain. Didn't see much of the captain's place, but the soldier's area was near the warrior's huts.

"Keeping an eye on you." the islander offered.

Logan laughed at this.

"You kept us where you store the surplus food." he retorted.

"No. Kept you where I kept snacks." came the stony reply.

"Somehow I'm not surprised. either way, we got to see a lot of the warriors. That's how I met my nude, blue friend, here."

The islander shot the smaller man a withering look.

"The men and I discovered that the warriors spoke some English. Apparently we weren't actually that far from where we needed to be, barely a day's journey. The warriors had learned it from open-minded traders at the nearest port. Between that and some wild gestures, we managed to communicate just fine. This fellow here-"  
he said, with a gesture to his companion.

"-was actually the first one to say anything. When he did, he asked if I had any food."

This met with an odd look from the almond eyes of the stranger.

"Is this true?" the soft voice had an air of bemusement.

"Was hungry."

"You're always hungry. Anyways, while this portly bastard was stuffing his face, I used the opportunity to try to talk to him. Didn't work very well – He doesn't talk much. He just ate and left. Only thing he said was "Back later. Talk then."

Logan tapped his pipe out on the table and proceeded to load it again. the islander cocked an eyebrow and said "did come back."

Logan laughed so hard sparks flew from the end of his pipe.

"Walked right in the hut, too! Didn't even knock! Damn near shot him. Probably wouldn't have done much good, now that I think of it. Didn't upset his apple cart, though. He just looked straight at me and said "Here now. We talk." And talk we did. Turns out he knew what I was. One of his gifts, he says. He'd seen others like me before, in the ports and forests, and had befriended a few. Learned english that way, among other things, and he loved stories and songs from the outside world. By the end of the night, we were singing and drinking like old mates. From then on, we set about learning everything we could from one another. Language, Fighting, stories, songs... it was like a fianna wake. By becoming his friend and learning what I could, I ingratiated myself (and most of the rest of the men) with the rest of the tribe. Made our stay much easier. At this point, my mind drifted to the problem of the ship. I loved the Rose, she was a beautiful ship. Hated to see her hurt, I did. After a couple days of discussion and thought, my blue friend asked a favor that made everything fall into place. "

"We'd been talking late into the night again, and as I was telling him of the journeys I had taken, he expressed the lament that He could not accompany me on any of them. I took this lightly until I realized how serious he was – he'd never been off the island! That night, he and I devised a plan that solved both of our problems."

"I would reveal myself to the captain and offer my help with the repairs. We'd fix the ship and make it look like the islanders did it. Meanwhile, Big, Blue, and in the Buff over there was to inform the tribe that he wished to set sail with us in two days time, and to convince them to take credit for the work done to the ship. They would then use that as leverage to name a price for their "Favor": His big blue arse onboard. "

Saying this last, Logan nodded again to his companion.

"Plan went off without a hitch, I might add. Everything was fine until we got into port! Captain was convinced I was plotting against him."

His speech was interrupted by chuckles.

"He went so far as to try to have me arrested for witchcraft! I was making a bloody fetish-"

Logan broke of into a fit of laughter that nearly devolved into hysterics. Even the stoic islander was shaking with mirth.

"And he and his goons storm in and try to arrest me! On a full Moon!"

Tears were streaming down the man's face as he laughed, his face going as red as his beard. After several minutes of this, he regained his composure and straightened himself up.

"What happened to them?" asked kiral.

Logan's grin deepened.

"Spoilers, laddie. Don't rush me. Anyways, we finally cast off, heading for the original destination. When we got there. the captain commissioned all possible repairs and supplies be taken on. We loaded our cargo and supplies and were almost ready to cast off for home when we were ordered to transport a prisoner. He was brought onboard the morning we left. Skinny fellow, but nearly my height. One of those little Persian bastards. Beat to hell, too. must have done something pretty bad. The captain had moved big blue up from the brig so that there was space to hold him. they shut him in there, and we were on our merry." he tapped his pipe out and put it inside his coat, checking his pocket watch as he did so.

"It's getting late. My memory's getting hazy." Kiral dropped five more coins on the table without a word. Logan brightened.

"You're a smart one, you are. Where was I? Oh yes...The prisoner. my friend and I had (and for some time, I might add) been tired of the captain and his irascible ways. He'd been snooping around our quarters and spying on us during watch. He was convinced that we were an enemy. If enemies we were to be, then enemies we were to be. I had decided that the life of a soldier wasn't for me and was considering other options. Eventually, the obvious choice of piracy entered my head. I brought it up to my friend during one of our watch nights. His response? "Like you more than the captain." Thank you, mister obvious."

"Between my friend and I, we were more than a match for the captain; the crew would be taken care of by the delirium. If we could take over the ship, we would have a vessel, valuable cargo, and supplies for months! My friend had been speaking to the prisoner we took on and discovered that he was also one of us. Said he'd been taken for attempting to assassinate a clergyman. i figured anyone willing to kill a priest would happily help in a mutiny to get free. After a little clandestine planning, our mutiny was nearing its time when the captain made his move. I was crafting a fetish in my quarters at the time, then the door bursts in and the captain is there with armed soldiers hollering some nonsense about witchcraft and the gallows. Didn't work too well. All it did was kick off the fight a little early - I knew that my blue friend would be rushing to the brig to free our mutual acquaintance once the fighting reached his ears, and I was not disappointed. Within the hour there were only four of us on the boat – Myself, The prisoner, our blue friend here, and the captain. Last thing he saw was his own Klaive sticking out of his chest. That fit your idea of justice.?" The asian's eyes narrowed as the news sank in.

"And where is the Klaive now?" the gentle voice inquired. Logan shifted in his chair, causing his cutlass to fall across his hip. His voice gained a harder edge as he spoke.

"I won it. Fair and square. Didn't even have my own Klaive to work with. This is mine now. You want it back? Duel me."

The tall man raised his hand in a halting gesture.  
"There is no need – none will contest that. As per your actions against your former captain, we will consider the matter closed. You have done no wrong. I must say that I do not condone the actions you have taken. They cause attention to be drawn to the places that should remain in shadow." he said in a placating manner.

Logan snorted in derision.

"I could give a damn less where I draw attention. As far as the litany goes, I took the klaive, burned the notes, and renamed the ship. It's my crew, my ship, and my way. If you stay out of our way, we stay out of yours. But we want nothing to do with your courts and bylaws. Got it?"

The tall man stood and bowed.

"We will leave you to your own devices, Captain Logan. I hope this will be the last time we must meet."

"Then you have all you came for?"

Kiral nodded.

"Indeed. I will inform Lord Morningkill that the Crew of the Luna's Curse are blameless in this matter. I would, however, like to point out that it will take more than a new coat of paint to hide from the queen's navy."

Logan grinned fiercely, his teeth gleaming in the low light. A low growl crept into his words as he raised his glass.

"Who says I'm hiding?"


	3. Sanya

As the crew of the Luna's Curse descended to the brig, a pungent smell began to waft from below. It became more intense the further they went, though by the time they had reached the cell they had become somewhat immune. The grizzled stranger was squatting, unconcerned, in the center of the cell. He was balanced on the balls of his feet, resting his elbows on his knees for support. He held an improvised pipe in his right hand, and the smoke issuing from it mingled with the larger cloud that shrouded his features. The crew attempted not to betray their surprise, but only Koro met with any success. The gypsy grinned and spoke in heavily accented English.

"You know, I've had some fine blends before, but this... this is good. You have taste, my Persian friend."

Alhazred's eyes grew wide as his hand flew to his pouch, then narrowed as he did not find what he was looking for.

"You thieving bastard! That is sacred to my people!"

The gypsy's grin got bigger.

"I can see why."

Logan stepped forward and addressed the older man firmly.

"Now hold it, laddie. You'll not be taunting my crew. As it's me that's been wronged, it's me you'll be talking to, or it's them that'll be making you. Are we clear?"

The gypsy exhaled in Alhazred's general direction, then spoke to the Captain.

"As crystal."

"Good. Now give me your name."

"I am Sanya."

"And I am angry. Mr. Koro, why am I angry?" he said, gesturing to the burly islander. Koro stared at the Irishman for a moment, then spoke in the manner of someone answering a question of an absurdly obvious nature.

"Stole money."

Logan grimaced, then turned to address his first mate in a heated whisper.

"Considering the fact that money translates to food on the plate, don't you think you could be just a _little_ more intimidating?!"

Koro tilted his head slightly.

"Okay."

Logan nodded and turned back to the prisoner.  
"As I was sayi-" Logan was cut short by a deafening roar as the hulking form of Koro suddenly shifted, lunging across the room to the cell. The speed of the action did nothing to soften the sight; the islander had become something monstrous.

His skin had become a grey, stony hide that was stretched tight over massive muscles. Each joint and apex on his body was accented by low, curving fins that were miniatures of the black dorsal fin that rose along his spine. The terrifying appearance of his body paled in comparison to the face which crowned it; Sunken black eyes atop a mass of nightmarish teeth, made all the more frightening by the presence of the strange, swirling tattoos.

The massive jaws opened and came down upon the steel bars, cutting clean through several of them. A quick twist took care of the remaining bars, leaving bent and broken pieces of iron framing a large hole in the cell. Alhazred let out an uncharacteristic yelp and leapt back, a throwing knife suddenly appearing in his hand. Koro was in motion before the dagger left the assassin's hand, gripping the smaller man's throwing arm and hoisting him up against the wall. Logan, meanwhile, was rooted to the spot, futilely opening and closing his mouth in attempts at speech. They remained in this bizarre tableau for a few moments, then Koro shifted back into his homid form, letting Alhazred slide to the ground as he did so.

"Don't like knives in my back." the islander rumbled, never breaking the Persian's gaze.

It was around this point that Logan recovered his voice. It had lost none of its authority in its brief absence, its sound immediately bringing Koro's gaze to settle on him.

"Mr. Koro... What, in the name of the Black Spiral, was THAT?"

Koro grinned fiercely.

"Intimidating." He answered, in a satisfied tone.

Logan shook his head for a moment, then resumed, watching Koro out of the corner of his eye.

"As I was saying, it might be wise for you to give me a reason not to let him do something along those lines to you."

The gypsy, who had pressed himself against the far wall during Koro's display, stepped towards the twisted bars. He gripped one of the few left whole and leaned down, looking at the Captain through the hole as he replied.

"I give you two. First one, I can fix this."

Logan snorted.

"You're going to have to do a hell of a lot more than bend a few bars."

The gypsy laughed.

"It was not the cell I was referring to." He stepped over to the cell door and casually swung it open, walking between the others as they stared, too stunned to draw the first weapon. He began pointing out flaws as he walked, listing off the necessary repairs as the crew listened in stunned silence.

"These compartments...too much strain here on the hull. This door brace, loose. Must put beams here, there and... there."

He circled the room, continuing in this fashion until he came back to the cell door and stepped inside.  
"And this I give you as show of good faith. It locks now." he finished, punctuating his sentence by latching the cell.

The crew stood dumbfounded. Logan, being now somewhat familiar with the process, found his voice first.

"Alright, you're a fair hand with a hammer, but there's more on our ship than can be fixed in the fortnight before we cast off."

Sanya looked at the Captain intently.

"My people have a saying – there are no marks among the wolves. We walk the same paths, and share the same dangers – one does not take from his brother. I must repay you for that, and I will. I will repair your ship, no matter how long it may take – That will settle our debt, and would pay my room and board to wherever you may be going. After that, anything else is by your leave. Is this...acceptable?"

Logan snorted.

"Sounds to me like you're getting way too good of a deal."

He looked at Koro and Alhazred in turn, reading their faces and weighing his decision. After a few moments, he brightened. He drew his Klaive and threw it across the room, sending it sailing through the hole in the iron bars to wedge itself into the wooden wall an inch from Sanya's face. The Russian's eyes widened for a brief moment, then he turned and pulled it from the wall, examining the metal closely.

"Can you fix _that_?" the Captain queried.

Laughter shook the older man's shoulders.  
"I am gypsy. Knives are my life."

Logan started to correct him, then thought better of it. He stepped forward and opened the door to the cell, extending his hand to the older man.

"Mr. Sanya, for your actions, you'll repair my ship. After that, you can stay for as long as you make yourself useful or inclination takes you elsewhere.As long as you're on my ship, you do as I say. You disobey me, and I'll throw you off the ship myself. Do we have an accord?"

Sanya took Logan's hand with a ready smile.

"It seems I have little choice. It is what I wanted anyway."

Logan smirked..

"Good, good. Now – Clean this up." he said, gesturing to the surrounding mess.

"And fix the gorram bars."said Koro.


	4. DuMourne

Captain Logan leaned against the rail of the Luna's curse and squinted into the bright sunlight. It had been three days time since they had docked in Koh Pahnang, and it had profitable. The package had been delivered without a hitch, and they had restocked the ship with much needed supplies using the profits they had earned. Koro was busying himself by loading crates and barrels onto the deck from a cart had been delivered to the ship. The islander was drawing looks from some of the passersby due to the loads he was lifting. The captain began to speak, then thought better of it; the idea of intimidation sat better with him than secrecy.

Footsteps on the gangplank broke Logan from his reverie, and he turned to see a slender, fair-haired youth standing a few meters shy of the deck. He called out in a voice that seemed on the edge of a smile.

"Excuse me!"

Logan and Koro both stared at the newcomer, having stopped in mid stride.

"Is it possible to get a berthing on this vessel?"

Koro and Logan looked at each other, then promptly returned to their respective activities. The youth, undaunted, called again.

"Allright, permission to come aboard and give you money?" he said, holding a sizeable change purse in the air.

At this, Logan stepped forward, crossing the distance between them in a few strides. He snatched the money purse from the outstretched hand and threw it, without a glance, over his shoulder. The purse arced high in the air, flying directly towards Alhazred, who was emerging from below decks. The persian caught it instinctively, looking at his prize in bewilderment. He shrugged, then tucked it into a pocket and continued with his work.

"Granted. Now, get OFF my gorram ship." said the captain, turning without giving him a chance to reply.

"But I haven't actually set foot on it yet."

Logan stopped.

"You've balls of solid iron, don't you, laddie?" he inquired, turning.

"Alhazred!" he called, over his shoulder.

"Yes, Captain?"

"How many coins is in the boy's purse?"

A few moments passed before the answer came.

"50 crowns, Captain."

"Then you've got about one hour of my time." He said, this time to the boy. "Follow me."

At this last, he turned and began walking towards the ship. Halfway to the cabin, Koro fell into step behind the Captain, keeping a watchful eye on the stranger. Inside the cabin, the furnishings were more ornate than the rest of the ship would have you believe. The room was dominated by the map table, around which several dark wooden chairs had been arranged. They steered around this to the large, ornate desk in the rear of the room, behind which the Captain sat, steepling his fingers as he leaned back. Koro took up his place to the Captain's right, giving a steady warning stare in the newcomer's general direction.

Logan addressed the youth before him.

"Alright, boy, you have my attention. You're money's good, so let's hear your story. Give me a good reason to keep you here, and we'll talk. If you waste my time, then I'll have my tattooed friend here pitch you into the drink. Port or starboard will be entirely up to you. So first things first – give me your name, and I shall give you mine."

The youth bowed courteously, but was not above a slight flourish.

"I am Ezekiel DuMorne, and I am a traveler seeking profit, adventure, and amusement."

Logan snorted and produced his pipe. He lit it with a practiced motion, then spoke.

"I am Logan, Captain of the Luna's Curse." he said, with a grand gesture to the ship around him.

"This is no pleasure cruise, boy. You got a destination, we might get you there. If you're looking to wander... well, the places we wander aren't places you want to go."

Ezekiel grinned at this.

"It sounds like they are precisely the places I wish to go. Where are you next bound?"

Logan frowned.

"Let me make this clear: The places we go, you aren't welcome."

"Then they shall remind me very much of home." the youth replied. "I am not unused to danger, Captain. Nor to rejection."

The youth crossed his arms resolutely, a pleasant but definite expression settling across his face. He would not be dissuaded; Logan could see that much.

The Irishman stood, turning his back to the youth and seeming to contemplate the map that covered the wall behind his desk. As he did, he caught Koro's gaze with his own. A knowing look passed between the two, and the Captain turned back to the youth.

"Not unused to danger? When I say there are places you are not welcome, it's not for any lack of station...it's because you are _**food**__._"

The last word crossed the Captain's lips in a barely intelligible snarl, his face having splayed and lengthened into a furred muzzle. Logan and Koro had shifted during the speech to their full war-forms. Logan was like a massive shadow, the deep claret of his fur only visible in spots from the lanterns' glow. His eyes had become a burning, acidic green, casting a venomous glow on the terrifying maw that lay beneath. His powerful frame was coiled, as if ready to spring, and he snarled at Ezekiel. Koro, terrifying as he was, became all the more so as he opened his jaws wide enough to swallow half of a man, then slammed them shut with a force that shook the floor beneath him. It was at this point that a blinding flash of light and noise like cannon fire obscured their senses.

When they had regained their faculties, they were greeted by the sight of Ezekiel, still in his chair, calmly leveling a long musket at the werewolf's nose. The werewolf's head tilted in a quizzical expression.

"This-" he said, smiling and gesturing to the gun "is Judy, and that little trick of yours, while impressive, won't work." He grinned and cocked the hammers back. "I've always wished I could meet a Garou."

The pair shifted back into their former shapes, both looking suspiciously at Ezekiel.

"You mind tellin' me what you're about playing me for a fool when you knew damn well what you were getting into?" Logan said through clenched teeth.

DuMorne put his left hand out, palm up, in a placating gesture. He stood and whipped the gun around, handing the firearm to Logan.

"I'm not trying to deceive you, Captain. Only to demonstrate my usefulness."

Logan took the rifle, hefting it in one hand. He looked down the sights, checked the barrel, and ran his fingers over the silver etchings on the butt. He snorted, then handed it respectfully back to its owner.

"Fine weapon. You ever point that at me again, you better intend to use it."

The youth tilted his head in acquiescence.

"Your ship, your rules. I can respect that."

Logan smiled genuinely for the first time since the conversation started.

"At least you understand that right and proper. Rule number two, tell me what I want to know. What in Gaea's name are you?"

"I am a man, more or less. I am a Mage."

Logan stared at him, blankly.

"Wizard?" he ventured. "Sorceror? Wielder of the Arcane Arts?"

Logan brightened.

"Ah! A magician!"

The youth sighed heavily.

"Sure," he said. "A Magician."

Logan laughed and clapped DuMorne's shoulder.

"I'm only pulling your bloody chain, lad. I've heard of you. Never met one before, though. Got _called _one once, but that's about as close as it comes. So who are you running from?" the Captain asked, matter-of-factly.

DuMorne's gaze snapped up. At this range, Captain was able see the pulsating glow the emanated from the young man's irises.

"Who said I'm running?" he asked, apprehensively.

"Everyone here is running from something. It's a bloody pirate port, lad, where did you think you were?" Logan observed.

The youth shook his head.

"I'm running from anyone."

Logan shook his head.

"Rule number two, boy, or I'm still going to pitch you over the side and keep your gold."

DuMorne shook his head.

"I've been exiled. It's not that I need a place to run, it's more that I don't have a place to go."

Logan smiled again.

"So you figured the best place to go would be a place that goes, eh?"

DuMorne cocked his head in a mimicry of the captain's earlier gesture and said,

"I'm not sure I understand."

"Forget it. Mr. Koro!"

Koro looked at Logan.

"Set up a bunk for our friend here and inform the crew that we'll be dining in port within the hour, with entertainment to boot." Logan ordered.

Koro left the room, leaving the Captain alone with the youth.

"You'll be paying for the drinks tonight."

DuMorne nodded.

"You and your men are giving me your time, this seems fair; though I will have some trouble without my purse." he added, shooting a look at the Captain.

Logan grinned.

"Aye, laddie, you'll get that back when convince the lads to let you stay."

Logan's face suddenly became serious.

"All jokes aside, you've only a place on my ship if the others agree to it, boy. Better make your story good." the Captain warned.

The Mage smiled, his glowing irises brightening slightly.

"Oh, I promise. It'll be a _blast._"


	5. The Drowning Monkey

Dusk found the port just as lively as the day had; the merchants that had closed up shop were replaced by the light now emanating from several businesses, legitimate and otherwise. All these were arranged around what was obviously the central business: the local tavern. It was here that Ezekiel, Logan and Koro had brought the rest of the crew to hear the young mage's story.

Ezekiel stared around the table at the faces surrounding him. Some held expectation while others wore predictably more skeptical faces; Logan was the first to speak.

"Alright, boys. This is one Ezekiel DuMorne, and he's looking for passage on our fine ship. Not aiming to go anywhere particular, just travel. As his money's good and his story's interesting, I figure'd we'd better hear him out." he told the assembled pirates.

Alhazred stood.

"I have better things to do with my time ashore." he said, making to leave.

"The boy's buying the beer." Logan said, pointedly.

Alhazred held up his coin purse and jingled it at the Captain.

"Money is not the issue." He said.

"Sit _down_, boy, before I get angry." Logan said, and kicked a stool across the floor in the Assassin's general direction. It was a lucky shot, the stool smacked firmly against Alhazred's shin. He hissed through clenched teeth at the sudden pain, giving the Captain a murderous look. Logan somehow managed to stare the youth down while remaining in his weatherbeaten bar stool. Alhazred rubbed his shin a moment, then reluctantly took his place at the table with a baleful look at Logan; This was flatly ignored.

"Now get on with it, Mr. DuMorne."

The young wizard stood, giving a slight bow and flourish that met with empty stares. He did not make them wait; he launched into his tale with the air of one who is relieved to finally tell a great secret laid on them against their will. To his credit, the youth was an excellent storyteller; his grandiose gestures and fine speaking voice instantly captured the crew's attention. As he told his story, the words took on a hypnotic tone and his eyes began to glow; then the world changed.

The experience was different for each of them: One found himself falling through space, another felt he was walking through a dark tunnel, still another felt they were swimming to some unknown destination. The end result was the same for each of them: they awoke with a start to a room that they could only start to recognize through the haze of sleep. They stood, stumbling around until they found the source of the noise that woke them: A messenger at the door. They took the proffered note from the monk and rubbed the haze from their eyes...

_**The head of the Order had summoned him that morning, giving him little time to grab his personal foci before he had to leave. It was urgent, said Senex, and had a working that could be done only by the young Mage. Young, of course, compared to Senex, himself almost 200. The Old Man, as they called him, was someone you did not dismiss a summons from, even if you suspected unpleasantness.**_

_**And how could he not expect it? The Old Man himself had been questioning him only last night in the garden on his latest exploits. His demeanor was friendly, yet somehow more cautious, and his questions grew more direct as the conversation went on. It started innocuously, leading into such things about what the young Mage thought of the world, our place in it, and what can be the best benefit to everyone. It drifted quickly to more direct applications, how many people he had killed, what purpose it served to do so, and by what thought process he had come to the decision that those people needed to meet the Good Death. It was all very logical, and that, it seemed, was what had unsettled Senex so very deeply. "Surely," said the Elder, "it would be a better use of resources if we used such people by instilling faith in the old ways within them." The Old Man had a point about that in one regard: it was well known among certain in the Tradition's Orders what was being planned by the Technocracy in their manipulation of the Sleepers. The coming days will bring much power to those techno-mages if things continue as they are. People will forget magick and lean solely on technical wizardry. Science will be held more highly than the sacred. Paradox caused amongst our kind, the Mystical Will-weavers, will become rampant as the Consensus is changed to reflect more emphasis on Magick from machines.**_

_**But that itself was the reason why, Ezekiel had retorted. The Euthanatoi were common keepers of one belief: those who had thrown away life or grown to where they were no longer a part of the eternal Turn of the Wheel must be excised from it. Long the practice was limited to serial murderers, child rapists, the very worst sort of parasites on the workings of life and destiny itself. So why not take that practice further, reasoned Ezekiel. Why not bring the Good Death to those that were in the way of what the Euthanatos could shape the world to be? What better way to celebrate life than to permanently shape it so that the Wheel is best served?**_

_**When he was summoned that morning to the council, Ezekiel knew already that his superiors were in disagreement with his approach. Life, they said, was the point, not the Wheel itself. Life was what needed to cycle, almost completely left to the decisions it makes on its own, with only slight nudges to make sure the cycle continues as stable as it can. Those who suffer from the displacement of the Good Death will be set free to become again part of the resurrection path, through death and back into the light of Tellurian Being, but it was the place of no Mage to decide who and what should be extinguished in such great numbers as those helped to pass on by the hand of Ezekiel DuMorne.**_

_**They had decided not to cause a formal inquiry. The Council of Mages would not know of this, as it was decided that this was important to keep at the level of the Order's business. The Euthanatoi would themselves deal with the beginnings of the perversion of their teachings, so as not to cause the whole of the Traditions to seek to control those teachings more tightly. The last time this had happened, the war that started nearly ended the entire Euthanatoi way. To this end, they would have to devise a punishment to fit the crime as they saw it, not as what the other Orders might think. It was not enough for Gilgul, said Senex, even though that would be the ultimate sentence from a Tribunal. The Euthanatoi, however, thought this was an ineffective solution to proving the point to Ezekiel and all who followed him. The permanent removal of the Avatar from communication with Ezekiel, the utter cessation of him being able to wield Magick at all would not suffice; he must be taught why his transgression was so severe, not prevented from repeating it for good.**_

_**So they had decided on a different Censure. First, the Avatar would be Branded. This Brand would mark it as one who was soaked in blood at one point, whether in and of its own actions or the True Will of the Avatar being overrun by the actions and thoughts of the Mage himself. Secondly, the Avatar would be temporarily locked away from him, no direct communication between him and the Avatar above. It would be as if he were only just Awakened and still had so much to learn about focusing his power. Ezekiel would be permitted to call upon the power of the spheres, but only as a rank amateur without full realization of his Avatar. This was the only way to know which of them had decided on so bloodthirsty a path.**_

_**The Old Man had seemed to have decided it was Ezekiel's misgivings that had led him down the wrong path, that somehow the Avatar was being misheard. The younger Mage decided not to press the point, to give credence to the Old Man's opinions on the matter, and not to argue with the oldest of the Entropy Mages. He had been around only 200 years and was already the head of the Order; someone with that kind of talent and wisdom cannot be easily dismissed. It didn't hurt that it was being said by someone who could also crumble your living bones into dust by looking at you, either.**_

_**So the Censure was decided that thus, stripped of his hard-won knowledge of the inner workings of the Spheres, he would be reduced in Arete and occult resources as if he were but a newly Awakened one, someone just beginning their path to Ascension. He would relearn what it was to be a part of the world by seeing it first hand, so that hopefully he would learn better how to choose whom he killed, removing them from the current stream of Life, and whom he merely nudged on their path on the Turn of the Wheel.**_

_**And so he went into the world, but it was not as if he went unprepared. The Order had made clear this was a punishment, but had still provided him with some things to help him on his way. Guides to certain popular locales. Maps of the known world of the Sleepers. A guide to any of the varied supernatural beasts of the world, both this part of the Tellurian and Umbral. His personal foci, two of which were gleaned from one of the victims he had claimed over the years: his first Technocracy kill. "It is better that these tools you so trust in to work your will over them were part of how you learned best to serve the Sleepers," said Senex. So at least he was permitted to have the tools of his personal Magick working to aid him on his quest to regain the Knowledge of his Avatar. He would have missed the firearms, surely.**_

_**So here he stood, in the harbor town half-way around the world from his home, hoping against hope to find somewhere to make himself useful to the world as a whole in order to gain his place in the Order back quickly, all while avoiding being spotted by the mark such a process had left on him. **_

The crew came back to themselves slowly, as though waking from a long dream. Sights were the first to return, lights and shadows giving way to color and shape. The defining edges of things brought sound close on its heels, a deep vibration in their ears that eventually gave way to the patter Ezekiel's voice. Feeling began to return then, a deep tingling over their entire body that finally gave way to their motor skills. By the time they had fully recovered, DuMourne seemed to be wrapping up his story.

He had kept the drinks coming and even provided food, much to the interest and delight of the crew. All this arrived as if timed for the end of the story, and the crew wasted no time in devouring the food. This gave them time to reflect on what they had seen, and after several rounds of ale they were much more open to debate, and debate there was. It began lightly with softly spoken valid, points. It quickly devolved into snide comments about ancestry and accusations of dishonor. From there, it was a short trip into the veiled threats and roaring challenges marked by the occasional thrown chair. The arguments were many and broad, but the prevailing opinion (after much drink and discussion) was that the pub was a filthy, stinking place and that the accommodations (and drinks) were much better aboard the ship.

As the drunken pirates stumbled to their feet, Logan patted his side in search of his coin purse.

"Gotta...eh..._hic_...leave 'em...something...for the chair's n' _hic_ such..." he rambled, pulling a sizeable handful of the crowns from the leather. He wobbled over to the bar, signaling the wizened old man behind the bar. The annoyed look that clouded the old man's face was quickly replaced with a smile as the glint of the gold caught his eye. Logan dropped the coins on the bar and jerked his thumb in the general direction of where they had been sitting.

"S'fer the...tablesnchairznall..._hic_...**that**-" he slurred, then swiveled on one foot and managed to wind his way between the tables to the door. The last thing he heard as the door shut was the old man's voice in a strident pattern of yells. The rest of the crew were awaiting him outside,still berating the pub for one reason or another with barely coherent insults.

"What I can't figure out," said DuMorne "Is why they named the place the _Drowning Monke_y_._" he trailed off into laughter.

Sanya gave a look of disgust. "_Drowning Monkey_? Dreadful."

Koro's laughter drew their attention. He pointed at DuMourne.

"Drowning Monkey. Could have been him." he said, then kept laughing.

DuMourne turned at this.

"Your mother is a drowning monkey!" he shot back, good-naturedly punching the islander in the arm.

Alhazred dropped the ball he had been rolling about his fingers, losing his concentration in laughter. Even as he ducked to retrieve it, Sanya had set himself in motion. The old Russian moved with a surprising speed and snatched the crystal away a hair's breath from the Persian's clasping hand. Sanya swept the crystal around in a graceful arc, rolling it across his forearm, over his shoulder, and onto the back of his right hand.

"You should not laugh. Your mother was whore." He said, with a smirk on his face.

Alhazred stared at Sanya for a moment, fire in his eyes, then nodded in agreement with a conciliatory grin.

"True."

Their repartee was interuppted by the sudden arrival of Logan.

"What 'n the hell 're you..._hic..._babbling about...Drownin' yer damn mother, that's jus' sick..._hic..._Leave 'er the hell alone, mind you." slurred the Captain, stumbling more surefootedly than he should have out of the bar.

"No, no, no. Drowning _Monkey._ It's the name of the pub." DuMourne corrected him.

"Thas' no name fer a pub, boy...never gonna make any, eh..._hic_...money with that kinda name. Somethin' catchy, maybe...hrmnrrrmm...Fool's Moon, or something clever...stick with us, boyo, you'll go far, far..._hic_..." Logan replied, amiably clapping a hand on the young wizard's shoulder. He tottered off in the general direction of the harbor still muttering to himself.

"Where's he going?" DuMourne queried.

"Find Rum." said Koro. He stood, swaying a bit, then lumbered after the Captain. "Me too." he added.

The rest of the crew followed his example, falling into a small group as they made their way to the harbor and their home. Ezekiel alone hung back for a moment, citing the need to catch his breath, but he caught up with the others soon enough. When they reached the ship, the Captain drunkenly insisted that each crew member officially welcome DuMourne aboard. None bothered argue; it seemed a fine idea at the time. There were many professions of trust, threats of reprisal in the case of betrayal, and drunken embraces, all of which were promptly forgotten when the Captain produced a bottle of Jamaican Rum to toast the new addition to their crew. They each took a solemn drink from the bottle, Koro once again finishing it off.

"You've gotta quit doin' that, you great blue guppy...drinkin' all me prime drink...dash o' faerie spit in that one, too...rare stuff to get on _those_ islands...mean little (_hic_) buggers." Logan complained. "Bring a barrel o' the (_hic_) good stuff to the galley...hrrmmnn...smell that air...s'like somebody's cooking tits or something..."

Koro wasted no time in going in search of the rum; the others stared after Logan, wide-eyed.

"That," muttered Alhazred "is the funniest thing I have ever seen."

Sanya nodded assent, and the two of them followed after the Captain, laughing amongst themselves.

The light of the midday sun streamed through the windows in the galley. Logan was asleep on the bar, his hat covering his face. A fly buzzed lazily through the air, landing on the Irishman's beard. Logan swatted at it, unintentionally knocking his hat from his face. He squinted against the harsh light at the bizarre tableau around him. Everyone had apparently passed out where they had fallen. Logan dismounted the bar carefully, stepping between his snoring comrades and exiting the galley. As he walked out onto the deck, he was greeted by the scent of a light sea breeze and the sight of Mr. Koro sitting on the edge of stern, staring out at the ocean. Koro was holding a long, green stalk of Alhazred's herb and was chewing away, happily. Logan stepped up beside him and casually tore a few leaves from the stalk, producing his pipe from within the folds of his coat.

"Where the hell did you get that?" Logan asked, as he loaded the bowl.

"Woke up in Alhazred's room. He won't mind." Koro said, amiably.

"Hmph." Logan retorted. They sat in silence for a few moments, then Koro looked at Logan.

"You smell like a fish." he said, then began to laugh.

Logan looked up at Koro with an eyebrow raised, then barked a short laugh. After a few more moments of silence, Logan's expression turned serious.

"You up for the job?" Logan asked.

Koro smiled, not turning to look at him.

"Always."

Logan nodded.

"That's what I like to hear. Wake the others when you're finished and meet me astern within the hour."

Forty-five minutes later, Logan stood addressing his crew.

"All right, Alhazred, you're with Koro and I. Sanya, you stay here and get the ship as ready to sail as possible by the time we return. Keep it quiet, though – don't need anyone taking notice of us. Just need to leave."

DuMourne spoke up.

"What would you like me to do?"

Logan grinned.

"How much of that black powder you got?" he said, with a mad glint in his eye.


	6. Leaving Thailand

The building was on fire, and it was entirely Logan's fault. He did his best to act as surprised as everyone else when the black powder touched off. It wasn't difficult; the resulting dust cloud caught him entirely unawares. Choking and sputtering, he made his way slowly down the street, feigning interest in the roiling inferno he had spawned. He turned as soon as the opportunity presented itself, jerking his head to one side as his eardrums were suddenly assaulted by DuMorne's insistent inquiries.

"Was that Xaio Sengh's place? Did you just _blow up _Xaio Sengh's place? Are you _completely _insane?" he hissed.

"Yes, maybe, and apparently. Mr. Koro!" Replied Logan, directing this last to the burly islander that had appeared, as if from nowhere, at his right. Koro grunted in acknowledgment.

"It's time we left. Think we may be wearing our welcome a little thin." he finished. A fierce grin spread across his face. "This is going to be _fun._"

The three made their way across the sprawling port, separating and converging again as the crowd moved around and between them. A tap on the captain's shoulder and the flash of a white hood signaled the arrival of Alhazred; A dusty, grey feather that had once been white was held between his fingers, extended towards Logan. A cold pair of eyes stared out from beneath the voluminous hood, and the youthful face behind them, while handsome by any standards, held no semblance of emotion. He spoke in a flat voice, nearly monotone.

"Done."

The Captain took the feather, pocketing it without breaking stride. Alhazred pushed his hood back, his demeanor regaining its usual friendly warmth as he spoke.

"So, Captain, I assume we are to make a swift exit?" he asked.

Logan nodded.

"You'd be thinking aright, boy. Anything you can do to help us be off quicker, best get to doing it." he replied. The Persian said nothing; he simply began sprinting in the direction of the ship, which had just come into view.

"What the hell is he doing?" asked DuMorne in an annoyed tone.

His question went unanswered as they all attempted to track the swiftly running figure. His purpose became clear as he was traversing the gangplank to the ship. He vaulted the railing and then ran upon it as though it were no more precarious than the deck below; his swift and sure stride carried him to the outer rigging of the ship in less time than the crew could reach the gangplank themselves. Alhazred continued to climb, tugging at the occasional rope or adjusting some mechanical piece every so often as he did. When he reached the summit of the main mast, he crouched for a moment, seeming to take in the view, then leaped, his arms splayed in a graceful swan dive. As he fell through the air, the Mainsail unfurled behind him like a massive shroud reaching to envelop him. By the time he had reached the deck, the Mainsail was completely open and the rest of the crew was standing in front of him with impressed expressions on their face. Koro was the sole exception, continuing towards the stern in his usual, stoic fashion.

"Hunh." Logan said, with obvious approval. He raised his voice to the rest of the crew.

"Alright, get to work!"

The rest of the crew snapped from the slight daze they had been in and moved as one in several different directions. As the crew went about their preparations, Logan caught up with Koro. He stepped in next to the larger man and began to assist him in the laborious task.

"Mr. Koro, we have a problem. Despite our Persian friend's prowess, we have no wind with which to sail." Logan pointed out. Koro grinned.

"I noticed. No problem. Hold this." he replied.

Koro turned, released the chain, and had started to walk away when he was stopped by a yelp from behind him. The gigantic chain was flying past at an incredible speed, carrying Logan with it. He hit the railing with tremendous force; The chain flew from his grasp as he collapsed in a heap. Koro began to laugh, then was cut short by the massive thud of the anchor making contact. Wavelike ripples spread from the impact, disturbing the normally peaceful water and jostling the docked ships around. Curses and shouts were heard as cargo and people shifted or fell; these mingled with the curses that were streaming from Logan's mouth as he extricated himself from the debris.

"Ni hao jin gi shu! You great bungling blue bastard, what in the hell did you do that for?"

Koro grinned still wider, reaching to help the irate Irishman to his feet.

"Cliff." he reminded the Captain, a hint of humor touching his voice.

"God_damn _it..." Logan said. "Fine, fine. That's the last one you get for free, though." He squinted up at the islander and grasped the proffered hand. "What exactly _are_ you going to do, anyway?"

"Fix the problem." came the stoic reply, as Koro strode unhurriedly in the direction of the rail. When he reached it, he stepped up and over it with no more concern than if he had been descending a staircase. A sizeable splash signaled his submergence, and silence signaled his attention to the task at hand. Logan shook his head, then turned his attention to the anchor chain. He glanced around to ascertain that there were no eyes on him, then shifted to Glabro. He gripped the chain and began to haul, bringing the anchor in as quickly as he could manage. In a few moments, the anchor was up and the Captain was Homid once more, heading towards the helm. Alhazred dropped down beside him as he took hold of the massive wheel; The Captain gave the young Assassin an annoyed look.

"Can't you use the stairs like the rest of the gorram crew?" he shot.

"Sanya flies." countered the youth.

Logan sighed and made no reply. He scanned the waters around for any sign of his first mate, but saw nothing in the murky waters that he could clearly define. Alhazred broke the silence.

"Captain, I must ask – how are we to to make any kind of escape if there is no wind?" he pointed out.

"Is there some reason you're on my bridge asking me stupid questions? Get down to the bloody rudder before I throw you there myself." Logan snapped, giving the Persian a withering look.

"Sorry! Sorry!" Alhazred said, presenting his palms in a placating gesture. He disappeared as quickly as he had arrived, leaving the Captain alone with his thoughts.

"Asshat." muttered Logan, under his breath. He reached into his pocket for his pipe.

"Allright, Koro, whatever you're doing, make it fast." he said to the empty air, and as though the wind had carried his message, the Curse gave a sudden lurch. Logan dropped his pipe on the deck; He bent to retrieve it, muttering a curse. Upon standing, he saw that the ship had left the dock and was moving out toward open sea at a steady pace. Logan glanced around, and when he found the source of the motion, his eyes grew wide.

Behind the ship, a great, streamlined shadow swam. An enormous shark, fully thirty-five feet long, was using its massive body to shove the ship through the water. The swift, powerful strokes of its tail propelled the ship on in the general direction of the harbor exit, the wake from the boat not entirely able to conceal the large dorsal fin protruding from the water. The smile on his face was short-lived, however, as he caught sight of some commotion at the dock. He pulled his spyglass from its pouch and opened it with a grimace. He set his gaze to it, scanning the dock until he found what he was looking for. Sengh had indeed survived; He was, in fact, on the docks and enraged. They would give chase in a matter of hours; were it not for Koro's head start the Curse would surely have been boarded and taken...possibly burned. The thought of his ship in flames brought a growl unbidden to Logan's throat. Better burned than in the hands of another – but neither would happen while he drew breath. He lifted his gaze to the sky, scanning the clouds for any motion at all – and found it, in the east. A slight swirl of cloud out of the corner of his eye. He focused on it for a moment, then grinned widely and stowed the spyglass. He drew his Klaive and threw it in a graceful arc that plunged it into the sea. The ship jolted for a moment, then there was a loud splash as Koro came flying from the water. He had apparently shifted underwater; The klaive was held tightly in his hand as he arced towards the ship. He hit the deck on his feet, dropping to one knee to absorb the impact. Logan welcomed him with a smile on his face.

"No need to kneel, boy, I only want my sword back!" he laughed.

Koro stood, making no effort to reply. He stalked over to the Captain with heavy, deliberate steps that resounded on the wooden deck, his face an unreadable mask beneath the fearsome tattoos. He pressed forward until he was toe to toe with the smaller man, never moving to return the blade to its owner. Logan stared up into the fearsome face, completely unfazed.

"You...smell like a fish."

Koro stopped, cocking his head to the side in an odd imitation of Logan's oft-favored gesture. Logan burst into raucous laughter, which Koro soon joined in. Logan clapped his friend on the back.

"Well done, Mr. Koro, well done. A Westerly wind will soon be upon us, and we'll be on our merry within the hour." He said, pulling his flask from his hip. "I believe this is cause for celebration."

He took a long draught, passing it to the islander when he had finished. Koro took it, finished it, then handed it back. As Logan pocketed the flask, Koro spoke.

"Bad feeling."

Logan eyed him carefully.

"About what?" he asked. He had learned to listen to the islander, especially when he went out of his way to draw attention to something by speaking.

"Package." came the reply.

Logan raised an eyebrow at that.

"We know the old man's coin is good- and usually pretty plentiful at that." He countered.

"Not him. Liked Him. _Package._ Bad feeling." Koro corrected him.

"Your discontent has been duly registered. You have my permission to tell me "I told you so."" Logan said, only half-serious. "Still, a job's a job. Sooner done, the better. To your quarters, Mr. Koro. We may need your unique abilities again later if the Sengh catch up to us. Until then, see that you rest."

As Koro left the bridge, Logan stared out at the open sea and silently urged the winds to hurry. They'd need all the help they could get; the Thai sloops were among the fastest ships on the seven. As the breeze stirred, he felt a fierce joy run through him. _They may be fast, _he thought. _But they've never seen the likes of us before._

__"Come and get us, you dirty bastards. Come and get us."


	7. The Beach

Logan and Koro stood upon the beach and peered back at the Luna's Curse, safely anchored a few hundred yards from shore.

"Do you think the old crow'll take care of her?" said the Irishman

"He offered." came the larger man's terse response.

Logan nodded, satisfied, then turned to look at the island upon which they had beached. The heat of the sand cast a shimmering haze across their field of vision, obscuring the details of the dark forest that lay before them. The lack of detail did nothing to soften its impression; its presence was that of a living thing that was aware - and still unsure of what to do about them.

The pair made their way up the beach, silent in their mutual vigilance. At the edge of the forest, Koro stopped and stood his spear upright in the sand, leaving it behind. The captain gave him a querying look which was met with the typical stony expression.

The path, though little more than a game trail, was definitely well used. The lowest of the foliage had been trampled enough to restrict its growth, leaving only the hardiest of plants to be covered in the tapestry of leaves that occasionally fell from the massive canopy above. Every so often, another one would come spiraling down with surprising force to land with a wet smack upon the forest floor, sending a splash of moisture into the already heavy air. The thick leaves above them filtered the sunlight from above into puddles of liquid gold that littered the ground, ethereal in the cloying mist that clung to the ground and diffused their light into the hazy grey that permeated the forest. The shadows crept like living things across every surface of the forest, refusing to yield to the sunlight in its weakened state. The swirling tattoos on Koro's face mixed with the shadows and formed strange, eldritch patterns that unsettled the pirate captain when it was his misfortune to look the fearsome islander in the face during the trek. Insects buzzed in lazy circles, not deigning to notice the intrusion into their world. It was Koro who took the lead, forging the path with a care that seemed uncharacteristic. It worked; the island was virtually undisturbed by their passing and the teeming noises of the the jungle remained at the dull roar of a whisper that masked the sound of their footsteps.

They came upon the cliff when the sun was high in the air. The cover of trees did nothing to break the heat of the day, though the humidity had abated somewhat with their ascent into the higher areas of the forest. They forest floor gradually gave way to a rocky path that eventually became a stretch of flat stone that made up the edge of the cliff. The pair stared down at the dark water that lay far beneath the stone wall. Koro was the first to speak.

"Long drop."

"No kidding." Logan retorted.

"You first." Koro replied, a smile evident in his voice.

Logan let out a laugh and, without warning, put his boot to the islander's back, sending him hurtling towards the water below. He was still laughing when Koro hit the water. After composing himself, the Captain launched himself over the edge in a graceful dive that quickly devolved into a panicked flail as a gigantic shark breached the water and snapped its jaws shut just short of the falling man. The both of them hit the water with an absolute lack of grace, sending sheets of white water lapping over the small plants on the shore of the dark pool. After a few moments, Koro and Logan came out of the water, dripping and spluttering with laughter.

"You gorram son of a motherless goat! What in the seven spirals were you thinking?" Logan said with a good-natured tone of accusation in his voice.

"You pushed me off a cliff." came the reply.

There was a short silence as Logan's laugh abruptly halted. He glared at the islander for a moment, then his face broke again into an easy grin.

"Aye, that I did."

Their laughter rebounded off the walls of the cliff as they began to make their way steadily forward again. Their progress was slow, but steady, and just before nightfall their patience was finally rewarded.  
It was as though the world had taken the best of all things and tucked it away for safekeeping. The pure, white sand leading down to the water below arced into a crescent that, together with the stone cliffs that divided the lagoon from the rest of the sea, formed a perfect circle. The coral reef that extended from the northwest wall was clearly visible beneath the surface even from their vantage point. The sand underfoot was fine and cool, and gave beneath their feet as though they trod on powdered glass. They marveled at the sight, neither able to speak for a few moments. Logan looked at the larger man.

"Mr. Koro, see to the waters."

The islander's face split in a massive grin, and we was suddenly in motion, sprinting across the sand as fast as his legs would carry him. As he reached the line of the ocean, he gave a great flying leap and shifted. The sun-bronzed skin faded into a deep slate gray as his legs joined, twisted and became one single appendage. His feet merged and splayed to form a powerful forked tail, his other appendages flattening and becoming fins that accentuated the streamlined form. The massive shark that was Mr. Koro hit the water with a climactic splash, sending water hurtling far enough to cause the captain to retreat a few steps. He watched the dark shadow of his first mate sliding through the water, moving so quickly that it was hard to keep track. The great gray shape could easily be seen through the clear water, occasionally disappearing to inspect the deeper portions of the hidden lagoon. After a few moments, the islander waded out of the surf. Homid once more, Koro smiled fiercely as he approached Logan, chewing thoughtfully.

"Perfect." he opined after he had finished his impromptu meal.

Logan gave Koro a weary look.

"Use your words, sir. We've gone through this."

Koro stared at Logan as though he was addressing the very naive.

"Only need one. Perfect."

The Pirate Captain snorted. He reached in his pocket and produced a small golden snuffbox. Twisting it open, he palmed a pinch of the dark tobacco within. He pocketed the snuffbox and brought out a pipe in the same motion. He pressed the pungent leaves into the dark wooden bowl and held his pipe in his teeth, searching his pockets. After a few moments, he let out a low curse.

"Of all the-"

He stopped mid-sentence, finding what he was looking for. He drew a glass tube from his pocket. The tube was filled with a black stick of some charcoal-like substance. Logan broke a small piece of it off, pressing it beneath his thumbnail. Returning the vial to his pocket, he snapped his fingers, igniting a small spark of flame between them. He puffed his pipe alight, then began to meander wordlessly down the beach, smoke drifting around him in rings and clouds that hovered in the still air.

"I'd say it is at that."

The sunset had crept up on them, and it became all too apparent that they were not to return to the ship that night. This did little to dampen their spirits; the weather was fine enough that there was no need for shelter or fire. They found stones upon which to sit, then promptly fell into a practiced ritual of drinking, boasting, and friendly insults that carried on long after the moon began to rise. It hung in the sky, full and bright, streaming down onto the glassy water below and lighting the entire cove in an otherworldly light. It lent the area a dreamlike quality, and before the moon had reached her peak, the pair were fast asleep on their improvised seats.

The water had begun to stir, twisting as though awakening from a long and restful sleep. The reflection of the moon distorted, taking on strange shapes as a silvery, elegant hand emerged from it. The hand gripped the edge of the light and pulled the rest of the body through in a scintillation of fluttering wings. The figure landed firmly upon the reflection of the moon, its gossamer wings stretched wide, then folded them around its shoulders and began to walk toward the beach as though the water were solid ground. Every spot the creature set its foot spawned a small pool of silvery light that faded just as the foot was lifted again. Its progress was swift, and within moments it stood upon the shore, a silvery image of lithe grace and beauty.

It was a woman, tall and slender, that stood staring at the travelers. A halo of red hair framed her face in fire, its smooth white features cradling a pair of violent green eyes that bored into the sleeping figures with an intense scrutiny. She moved soundlessly closer, inspecting the two of them. Light caught the brass astrolabe in Logan's belt, and she reached to touch it. As her finger brushed the metal, Logan snapped his arm about, gripping the creature's wrist.

"I'd not be taking things that aren't yours, Missy. Now-"

Logan twisted, somehow winding her arm around his own whilst drawing his long knife and pressing it against her throat.

"State your-"

The reaction was incredible. The moment the steel touched her skin, she began to scream. The high, shrill note was so forceful that Logan clapped his hands over his ears, dropping both the woman and his knife in the process. The strange woman wasted no time; She dove for the blade that had dropped. Logan had retained the presence of mind to set his foot on it, and by the time she realized this Koro awoke. The islander was a blur of motion as he launched himself across the sand, pulling his strange weapon from his belt. He set its teeth on the woman's throat, pressing just enough to cause pain without breaking the skin. She froze.

"Get. Off."

She obeyed the tattooed man's command without hesitation, moving swiftly several paces away. Koro turned to the Captain, who had drawn his klaive and was cursing in the woman's general direction.

"What in Weaver's name are you on about?!" he shouted at her. "State your bloody business!"  
She replied in a strange, ethereal voice that sounded far too vast to come from so small a creature.

"Perhaps you should explain yours. It is you who have come here uninvited." She tilted her head and touched a hand to the angry mark the remained on her throat from the long knife.

"As well as attacked me."

The Captain snorted.

"I was sleeping peacefully until some glowing girl from a pond tried to lift my goods. What are you?" he asked, never taking his eyes off her. The girl laughed.

"I am the guardian of this place. It is my home, and you are intruding."

Logan nodded.

"That I'll concede. But that doesn't give you right to us or our property. Now answer me, what are you?"

She smiled.  
"What gives you the right to such things in the first place? Did you buy them with coin? Win them by blood?"

"I earned them. We'll leave it at that."

"Would their previous owners agree?"

"The previous owners are dead."

"You could have murdered them in their sleep."

"As you might have done to us?"

The creature gave a sly grin.

"As I _could _have done to you. And did not."

Logan gave her a fierce grin of his own.

"As I remember it, you were the one screaming in pain."

Her eyes flashed.

"You impertinent little-"

They were both cut short by a rhythmic slapping. They turned to the source of the noise and saw that it came from Koro.  
He was slapping his body and stomping the ground, focusing his eyes on the strange woman.

Logan completely lost it. Every ounce of air in his lungs was forced out in a belly laugh that echoed off every surface and sent its owner to the ground, clutching his sides in mirth. He managed to stagger to his knees and stutter a few inarticulate phrases questioning Koro's sanity before succumbing once more to tear-ridden laughter.

When he finally composed himself, Koro was staring at the captain rather indignantly while the strange girl had a smirk on her face.

"You've got to start showing me these things on the ship beforehand... going to start me laughing in the middle of a fight one day and get me killed."

He turned back to the girl, retrieving his klaive from where he had dropped it. He leveled it at her again as he spoke.

"Where were we? Ah, yes. What the hell ARE you?"

"Besides very annoyed?" she shot.

"Besides very annoying." he shot back.

She drew up to her full height, spreading her wings, and spoke.

"I am the Junisidhe of the summer court. This island is my refuge for traveling creatures that wish to remove themselves from the outside world for a time, to rest and recover from their wounds. It is my haven for the creatures that are far too few, and a haven for the injured. It is my magic that sustains this place, and this place that sustains me."

The attention of the two was focused entirely upon her exposed body, and had been since she had unfurled her wings. She huffed, fluttering her wings in frustration. She was suddenly clothed in the manner of the druidess, all greens and golds with a silver circlet on her head. The men shook their heads a bit, returning from where their minds had been wandering.

"As I said -"

"Oh, we heard you, Missy." Logan cut her short. "We were just enjoying the view." he said, with a chuckle.

"A fine speech that was, but it seems as though the outside world has just come knocking on your door."

The Sidhe girl's eyes narrowed.

"So it would seem. I can remedy that readily enough, if I chose."

Logan nodded and sheathed his klaive, confidently staring her in the eye.

"Aye, lassie. That you could. You could hide, you could whip up the winds to drive them away." His gaze grew darker as he spoke.

"But they will not stop. They will search this place out, and when they do, they will strip it hollow. How long do you think you'll last if the East India Trading company, with its thousands of ships and guns and men, descends on this island?"

The girl's eyes widened, and Logan could see that his words were having the desired effect.

"It's only a matter of time before they learn of this island. When they do, they'll take it for their own. They'll take the trees and build their harbor and stronghold in your lagoon. They'll turn this wonder into just another outpost. Even if you manage to survive, you won't recognize it."

The Sidhe Girl's eyes watered a bit, her mouth opening and closing a few times. Then she shook her head, clearing her eyes, and spat her response with surprising fury.

"Then I will fight them to the last. They will not have this island as long as I live."

Logan nodded, impressed by her passion.

"Aye, and as well ye should. But it seems to me as we can be of use to you."

She looked at him.

"We can help you defend this place. Give us safe passage, and a place to keep us and our belongings safe, and we'll treat the place proper and help you keep your secret. If the Trade Company does show up, we'll help you fight it. We are good men, Junisidhe. We are not here to harm you."

With this, he bowed respectfully. Koro did likewise.

"I, Captain Logan of the Luna's Curse, give my word to maintain and protect this island so long as my crew may call it home." He extended his hand to the Sidhe

"Give us a home. We'll defend it."

The girl stared at Logan, taken aback by the brashness of the offer. After a moment's consideration, she stepped forward and took his hand in hers.

"And I will assist you in your endeavors when I may, whether you be on the island or no."

They shook. The captain smiled.

"We have an accord, then."

He turned back to the islander.

"Now then, Mr. Koro, would you mind explaining to me what in the hell you were doing just now?" he inquired, a hint of laughter still touching his voice.  
Koro gave Logan a withering look.

"_Haka_. War Dance."

The Captain shook his head in mock disappointment.

"And here I thought you were the terror of the Seas, and there you go trying to dance our enemies to death."

"You didn't see the end."

"Funny as that was, I doubt I'll ever last long enough to." He laughed and clapped his friend on the back.

Koro walked to the edge of the forest and found another large stone, picking it up and placing it near the other two. He sat, and the other two followed suit. The captain produced his flask and took a mighty swig. He coughed at the burn, then passed the flask to the girl.

"So what do you want us to call you, anyway? You must have a name."

The Sidhe took a drink, smiled, and handed it back.

"Juni will suffice."

"Juni, eh? It fits."

Logan took another swig and handed the flask to Koro. Absent-mindedly taking his pipe out with the other hand. He packed and lit it, sending sweet-smelling smoke from every word as he spoke.

"Mr. Koro, do you remember the way back to the ship?"

Koro nodded.

"How long will it take for you to fetch the rest of them?"

Koro took another swig from the flask, then handed it back to Logan. Logan weighed it in his hand, frowning at its obvious emptiness.

"And to refill my flask?" He added.

"Two days." Koro rumbled.

Juni held up a hand.

"No need, captain, no need."

She stood and strode to water, stepping lightly onto its surface as before. The ripples that extended outward from each step seemed to chime, and it became apparent that she was performing a graceful sort of dance. The water sent up small splashes at each step, the droplets splitting the light into a fractured corona that surrounded her. Her hair and eyes had washed out to a glowing silver-white, and the splashes were getting higher, becoming more voluminous. When the water completely obscured her, everything seemed to hang in time for a moment. The world lurched, and with a fantastic noise the Luna's Curse rose from beneath the still waters of the Lagoon, sending spray in every direction and soaking the pair on the shore.

"You didn't laugh at _her_ dance." observed Koro.

"Hers was prettier."

As Juni walked up to them with a smirk on her face, the captain directed his question at her.

"Do you think you could dance us up some dry clothes while you're at it?"

Without a word, the Sidhe lifted her hand and made a quick gesture in his direction. A short but powerful blast of warm wind hit him, sending his hat to land behind him. His eyes widened in surprise, then settled on Koro, who was shaking with laughter.

"I fail to find this funny, Mr. Koro."

Koro grinned and pointed towards the still-dripping ship, laughing harder. Logan retrieved his hat, then squinted towards his vessel.

Alhazred was hanging from the Crow's Nest in a truly undignified manner. He shouted a few times for help, then pulled a knife and cut himself down. Redeeming his prior predicament with an exceptionally graceful landing, he ran up to the bow of the ship and began shouting in Arabic.

Logan watched for a moment, amused, then shouted back.

"Alhazred, you insufferable Persian asshat, shut up!"

Silence echoed across the water. Finally, after squinting in the direction of the beach several times, the Persian issued a tentative reply.

"Captain?"

Logan rolled his eyes in disbelief.

"Of course it's me, you heathen bastard! If it was anyone else as knew your name, he'd have already tried to kill you. Now go and get the others, We've business to discuss."

An hour later, the remaining crew of the Curse sat on improvised seats, listening to the Captain relate his tale. They ate and drank their fill as they listened, near silence dominating that atmosphere as the Captain went through the terms of the agreement he had made. By the time he had finished, the moon was beginning her descent. Alhazred and Sanya simultaneously reached for pipes, which they lit with purpose and languorously enjoyed as they pondered the new information they had been given. Logan did likewise, and after a few moments the old Russian spoke up.

"I like this girl. She is tiny, but _fierce. _This place will make a fine home, and she is a good person to know."

Alhazred piped up at this.

"This is indeed a beautiful place, but how are we to know she is to be trusted? I did not get the time to know her as the rest of you have."

"She promised Captain. If you hadn't taken so long to reach the shore..." Sanya reminded him.

Alhazred gave Sanya a sharp look.

"Some of us are not blessed with the ability to _fly. _Again, I ask, why are we to take her word?"

"Because she's a Sidhe." DuMorne interrupted.

"A She?" Alhazred tilted his head, confused.

"A Faerie."

Alhazred brightened.

"Ah! Like Djinn, yes?"

Logan dropped his head into his hand. Ezekiel laughed.

"Sure, Al. Why not?" Logan sighed, exasperated.

"Like Djinn, but nicer. For the most part. At least, the Summer Courts are. Unless you break one of the accords." Ezekiel explained.

Everyone looked at the wizard for a beat. He gave them a blank look.

"Wizard." he reminded them with a smirk. Juni rewarded the mage with a slight bow of her head.

"You are correct, in a sense. Our tempers are still quite short." Juni answered, then turned and gave the Persian an odd smile.

"It was I that moved the ship, Persian, and kept you alive whilst it happened."

Alhazred blinked, then thought for a moment. He nodded, satisfied.

"Ah. Well then. My Captain made a bargain. I will hold his word as my own."

Juni bowed graciously.

"I thank you for your service."

Alhazred tilted his head forward in a gesture of appreciation. Logan stood once again, tapping his pipe out on his leg.

"Alright, everyone. We're expected in port in two days' time. We need to be on our merry tomorrow, and if we're going to get back to the Curse anytime soon, we need to-"

He was cut off by the world twisting inside out. A rushing sensation like a cold wind came over him, a lurch deep in his stomach, then all of a sudden, everything righted itself. Everyone was now standing on the deck of the Luna's Curse. Logan was the first to recover, and glared at the Sidhe lady.

"Would you not do that when I'm in the middle of something?"

"Apologies, my host."

The others had recovered after a few moments and looked around, surprised and slightly baffled at the change of scenery; Only DuMorne seemed unfazed.

"As I was saying," Logan's voice snapped them all back instantly. "Get some sleep. We're to sail after we've all had a few hours. That's an order." The Captain strode off towards his quarters, apparently intent on following his own instructions.

The rest of the crew dispersed, wandering off their various sections of the ship as they went in search of bunk and rest. By the time the sun had begun to peek over the horizon, the entire crew was fast asleep.

The next afternoon found Logan, Koro, and Sanya on the deck, making sure the necessary preparations were made to set sail later that day. Friendly banter and curses were exchanged, along with the occasional snatches of songs sung remarkably well. Logan looked up from the mainbrace at Koro.

"Mr. Koro, where, precisely, is my Persian friend and why is my engineer doing his job?"

"Still asleep." Koro replied.

"Then wake him! It's past midday."

The islander nodded, and plodded off to Alhazred's quarters. As he stepped down the stairway, what sounded like a small explosion shook one of the wooden doors and tendrils of black smoke began to seep from the gaps in the door frame. Koro paused for a moment, considering this new development, and the door suddenly opened. Among the quickly clearing cloud of black smoke stood Ezekiel, his face covered with a fine, ashy, gray dust and his hair sticking out in all directions. He leaned heavily on the door, staring at Koro with his eerily glowing eyes as he rambled for a moment.

"uh...ahm...too much narwhal blood...not enough salt...needs more fig leaf...Got a drink?" he said, dust drifting off him every time he moved. Koro shook his head.

"Right, right...make that next..." he trailed off, disspearing back into the room with a puff of dust as the door closed. Koro shook his head again, resuming his mission.

Alhazred woke with a start to the bang of his door opening as Koro burst through it. The tattooed face split in a grin as the islander recognized the fire-red hair of the figure sleeping next to him. Juni stirred long enough to tug the sheets from Alhazred's grip, then promptly resumed her slumber.

Koro raised his eyebrows, but made no remark.

"Captain says you should be awake. Need you on deck."

Koro ducked back out and shut the door. His rumbling laugh echoed down the hallway as he returned to the deck to resume his work.

Several hours later, the ship was ready to set sail. The crew had taken up their positions on deck while Juni sat cross-legged at the bow staring out at the sea and singing strange, soft songs to herself. Logan stood at the helm, leaning on the great wheel of the ship and listening. One by one, each crew member found themselves stopping in their duties in order to hear, straining to catch the whisper of song that was always on the edge of their hearing. Even Koro paused, his placid face revealing little, but his silence was indicative of his interest. Though none knew the language, each was lost for a moment within himself; what they saw was equally different and disturbing for each; the moment struck them all so deeply that it was several minutes before anyone realized she had ceased singing and was now facing them.

"That was the Llano, if I am not mistaken." DuMourne said, his eyes glazed and somewhat dull. "I never dreamed I would be so fortunate as to hear it with my own ears."

"It is indeed a gift, and rarer still to find a mortal that recognizes it for what it is." She replied, giving the wizard a respectful nod. "As for the rest of you, consider it a musical blessing on your voyage."

The crew all made various murmurs and gestures of gratitude, though the Captain was the only one able to collects his thoughts enough to address her directly. He bowed slightly and spoke carefully.

"We thank you for your hospitality, Junisidhe. If ever you need us, summon us by any means you can."  
He thought for a moment, then added

"The less wet the better."

Juni smiled.

"I will do what I can. Be safe, until your return, and the island and I shall be waiting."

She bowed to the crew, then stood. She walked down the prow of the ship and stepped gracefully off, landing lightly on the water. Logan braced himself against the wheel.

"Hold on to something, everyone. Here we go!"

Everyone found some way to adhere themselves to the ship and braced themselves for the coming rush. The last thing the crew saw as the world turned upside down was the distorted form of Juni, dancing within a column of water. The water suddenly filled their world, objects not strapped down floating free and threatening to leave the ship altogether. Before they could move more than a few feet, however, the world came rushing back, a roar of rushing water and gasps for air signifying their emergence into the open air of the island's coast. When they had all shaken off the disorientation, they resumed their posts as quickly as they could reach them. As the sail unfurled and caught the wind, the boat swept gracefully about, turning towards the open sea as though the Curse knew it was time to be off.


	8. The Beast Court Summons

The Luna's Curse was a wreck. The main mast had been shattered, taking the sail with it into the debris-strewn waters after smashing through railing. There were so many cannonball wounds in the hull that its ability to stay afloat was nothing short of a small miracle. The deck was littered with debris, soot, and bodies, most of which were drenched in blood. A lone seagull glided lazily overhead; it sensed the carrion below and swooped onto the deck. It hopped forward, alighting on the chest of one of the prone bodies. A hand quickly slapped the bird away, sending it rolling along the deck with an awkward series of squawking complaints.

Logan sat up and squinted bewildered into the sunlight, shaking his head to clear the fog in his vision. He gave the bird a disdainful look as it righted itself; it squawked at him once more in irritation before turning its attention to the eye of the deceased man it had landed near. Logan lifted his lip and turned away in disgust, his stomach rolling slightly. Finding his pistol clutched in his left hand, he raised it and fired almost as an afterthought in the general direction of the offending gull. It disappeared in a puff of feathers and blood; Logan glanced at the mess with satisfied grin and nodded at the gun amiably.

"Luck."

Sanya's voice cut through the stillness like an arrow. Logan turned with the swift reaction of the paranoid, his tension easing as he saw the Russian resting easily in the remains of the crow's nest that had somehow found its way to the deck in the frenzy of the battle. Blood streaked his bare torso in a thin latticework, though none of it seemed to be his. He drank from the bottle in his right hand, then tilted it towards the captain in a questioning gesture. Logan nodded and reached in the direction of the older man, who sent the bottle sailing his way in a graceful arc that landed squarely in the palm of his hand. The contents turned out to be rum, probably purloined from the Thai vessel that now lay in pieces across the water, and good rum at that. He took a few long swallows before sliding it across the deck towards Sanya.

"Not so lucky for him." the Captain said.

Sanya considered this a moment, offering no response. Logan, meanwhile, began to take stock of the situation. As the realization slowly dawned on him, he spoke aloud, startling the Russian out of his reverie.

"We're adrift, aren't we?"

"Yes."

"Rudder's gone?"

"Yes."

"My hat?" he said with a mournful look in his eyes.

"Yes."

Logan let out a streak of curses as he stood, frantically searching about the bodies for his favored tricorn hat. He was interrupted by a large splash followed by a heavy thud on the deck that signaled the arrival of his first mate.

Mr. Koro stood unsteadily for a moment on the deck, still in his horrific war-form. His glassy, black eyes rolled in their sockets as he took in the surrounding carnage. Though his expression did not change, his demeanor took on a more relaxed look. He turned toward Logan, fixing him with a hard gaze, and promptly vomited at the Irishman's feet; after a few moments, the Captain's Hat among other various objects were swimming in a strange amalgam of what looked like wood pulp and bloody chum upon the deck. Logan gave him a disgusting look as began to take on his homid form.

"Couldn't you have used your hands? Or at least not _swallowed_ it?"

"Hands were full." replied Koro, unapologetically.

Logan opened his mouth a few times to respond, then finally gave up. He strode across the deck in a few quick strides, plucking his hat from the sodden wooden planks and placing it on his head.

"Good thing your mouth wasn't." Logan replied, snorting.

Sanya, who had been laughing silently to himself during the exchange, hopped out of his now ground-level perch and slapped the Captain on the shoulder.

"Look on the bright side! This gives me reason to do repairs." he said.

"And just where are you going to get the material? Anything useful that was left on that ship is on its way to the deep." Logan shot back.

"I am...resourceful." Sanya replied.

Logan snorted again, then muttered something about laying lumber eggs as he scanned the deck.

"Where the hell are the others?"

"Alhazred? His quarters. Ezekiel, well... he tends the souls of the dead."

Logan cocked his head to one side in a quizzical guesture, glancing pointedly at the bodies on the deck.

"Rather he'd tend to the _bodies._ It's them as are getting in the way." He looked up at Koro again, a mischievous glint in his eye. "Feeling hungry?"

Something unsettling stirred in Koro's gaze as he surveyed the gore before him.

"Always." he rumbled.

"Then see to the feast."

Sanya gave him an incredulous look.

"You are serious?" he asked, glancing back and forth between the two.

Logan turned on his heel and began striding toward the stern at a steady pace, giving no answer.

"Where are you going?"

"I'm not watching this. Besides, he's a messy eater." came the fading reply as the Captain disappeared behind one of the larger piles of debris.

Sanya slowly shifted his gaze to Koro, who rewarded him with a truly disturbing grin.

"Nozdrovia, my friend. Your health in my absence." said the Russian, smiling and making to follow Logan amidships. The sounds of wet crunching rose and fell behind him as he left the islander to his gruesome meal.

When he reached the other side of the ship, he was greeted by the sight of a bemused Logan leaning on the rail and staring down at Ezekiel. Ezekiel was moving between the bodies, stopping over each one for a few moments before moving to the next. Each time he stopped, he would make a few passes of his hands over the prone figure, fingers stabbing in strange gestures as he muttered phrases that neither Logan nor Sanya's ears were keen enough to decipher. After he had finished his incantation, sealed each of their eyes shut with a small silver pin.

"What is he-"

Sanya cut his inquiry short as Logan held up a hand to silence him. They watched this bizarre ritual with a combination of fascination and amusement, patiently awaiting its completion. When the Mage seemed satisfied with his handiwork, he stood, suddenly becoming aware of his audience. The Captain grinned widely.

"Dead men see no sunlight." Logan called.

"True! But spirits still have tales to tell!" DuMorne replied.

"Then shouldn't you be sticking a pin in their mouth?"

"The eyes are the window to the soul."

Logan nodded. "Fair enough. But why'd you feel the need to use their face as your personal pincushion?"

Ezekiel produced one of the silver pins. It was of a spiral design, with a wickedly sharp point and etched throughout with sigils and twisted designs.

"I shut the window. Permanently. The spirit inside can't be summoned or leave the body. Nothing goes in...or out." he said, with a nasty smile.

Sanya and Logan stared at him for a long moment.

"Good thinking. No sense having loose tongues about, whether they're alive or dead. Of course, we still have the problem of the _bodies._" said the Captain.

"Throw them overboard?"

Logan stopped for a moment.

"You know, the thought never occurred to me." he admitted, rather sheepishly.  
Sanya looked at him.

"Seriously? This never came to mind?" Sanya said, smiling slightly.

"I didn't hear you offering any suggestions." Logan shot back.

"I had no magic silver pins." Sanya said, smiling.

A shadow fell over the pair of them and silenced them both. They looked up to see Koro at the head of the steps, leaning over the rail with a satisfied look on his face.

"Speak of the bottomless pit. Finished, have we?"

Koro smiled.

"Licked the plate clean." he replied.

Logan frowned.

"I'm not even sure I want to know what you mean by that." he said, shaking his head.

He looked around at the ship and sighed. It would be the work of the day just to ensure that they could stay afloat, much less try to move her.

"How far can you throw these bodies?" he asked Koro.

Koro answered without hesitation.

"They'll reach the sea."

"Good. When you're finished with that, you're relieved for the rest of the day. Sanya!" He turned to the man at his side.

"I want you to start repairs on the ship. Make sure that we can move the old girl without her falling apart. Just keep her together – We'll find a way to get moving later."

Sanya nodded.

"All will be well, Captain. I will fix."

Logan nodded, then turned to the Ezekiel.

"We have any food stores left?"

"What, am I your cook now?" DuMorne replied.

"No, but you're the only one as knows how."

DuMorne laughed.

"I suppose I should take that as a compliment. Very well; I'll see what we have. There must be something."

"Make sure we've got plenty of it. I want heavy drink and high spirits tonight. We'll need it for the day tomorrow."

"As you see fit, sir."

The crew dispersed one by one as he gave them their orders, each of them anxious to accomplish the task at hand. Logan himself made his way to Alhazred's quarters.

"Al!" he called, striding down the hall towards the door.

He reached the Persian's quarter's and stood for a moment, then rapped his knuckles on the wood.  
After a few knocks, the accented voice came from behind the heavy door.

"Enter."

Logan opened the door and stepped inside to find Alhazred seated in his chair, shirtless, calmly stitching a long gash in his left arm. A bowl of bloody rags and water sat on the table next to his still-smoking pipe. The room had been practically suffused by the sweetish smell of the Hashashin herbs, and his eyes were red and distant as he worked.

"You all right, boy?"

"It is nothing I have not experienced before. Mine is a dangerous line of work in the first place." he joked, tightening another stitch. He winced a bit, then set the needle down. He reached for his pipe, took a great draw on it, then set it back on the table.

"Listen could you not, uh...could you not do that while I'm, eh...Ah, hell if you're going to do that in front of me, at least fill my pipe." Logan fished his pipe from his pocket and extended it to the youth.

"I never pictured you as squeamish, Captain." he said, producing one of the small vials from his belt. This he handed to Logan, who tipped some of the contents into his pipe before nodding his thanks and slipping the cylinder up his sleeve.

"It's the needle. Never did care for the damn things."

The two of them sat for a few moments, filling the room with their smoke. When Alhazred finally set his pipe down and reached for the needle once more, Logan was able to watch with a detached interest. They both remained silent until he had finished, tying the last stitch off with a deft twist of his fingers.

"So," Logan said, the Persian's gaze snapping up to meet his.

"How much more of those herbs have you got?"

"Enough. What do you have in mind?"

"Enough for everyone?"

"If the need should arise."

"That's good. Tonight's that night. Can you have it ready by sundown?"

"If those are your orders."

"They are." the Captain nodded. "I'll see to it you get fair compensation."

Alhazred waved a hand in dismissal.

"No need."

The Captain nodded.

"Again, thank you." he said, genuine appreciation in his voice. He stood, wobbling a bit, and readied himself to leave. As he opened the door, Alhazred spoke.

"May I ask why?"

Logan stopped for a moment.

"I'll tell you tomorrow." he said, cryptically, and left Alhazred with a puzzled expression on his face.

Sundown found the crew gathered on the foredeck. A small bonfire had been built within a metal pit that Sanya had insisted upon installing in the deck, and they gathered round it with tales and songs. Despite the ill fate of the day, the mood was merry; They had survived, even triumphed after a fashion, and this was their first true Naval battle. While they were damaged, they were still afloat, after the fine meal Ezekiel had managed to prepare, he had also salvaged several casks of rum. Alhazred also made good on his word, producing several strange devices that he showed each of them in turn how to smoke with, then providing them each with small brick of green herbs. Sanya took particular delight in these contraptions, and even Koro found one for which he had a fondness; the mood had become very merry indeed. Sanya brought out his violin and began to play, his clever fingers drawing the bow across the strings with practiced ease. The tune was an old one, and while each one of them felt they recognized it, none of them could completely place it. Logan surprised them all by suddenly launching into song, his voice a fine tenor with a touch of his natural brogue. The song was Gaelic, and while none of the others understood the words, they clapped and howled and sang along in wordless harmony. Alhazred rose, stretched, and began a dance that followed the rhythm, circling the fire constantly in one endless, fluid motion. As the final note was drawn, the dance was brought to a graceful close that ended with the Persian returning to his seat. Everyone, including the performers, applauded each other and themselves, then fell to a moment of silence.

Koro wobbled to his feet, then very carefully slunk from his seat and around the fire. Everyone's eyes were on him as he crouched and very intently studied a spot on the deck a good seven feet away. Much to their amusement, he suddenly sprang and grabbed at what appeared to be empty air, sprawling on the deck and scrabbling what he had apparently failed to catch.

"Mr. _(hic) _Koro, just what in the hell are you _doing?" _Logan slurred.__

"**RABBIT!**" Koro shouted over his shoulder as he launched himself over the railing in an unsteady somersault. Everyone erupted into laughter.

"Rabbits don't swim, you great guppy!" Logan shouted after him, laughter peppering his response. Any response was lost in a magnificent splash. "What in the hell _is _this stuff, anyway?"

"It is the gift of _Djinn_. The fire spirits gave this to the Hashashin so that we may find our marks anywhere in the world." Alhazred explained. "Though technically..._this_ is the gift of the Junisidhe. It has….other uses as well."

Logan stared at the Persian for a moment, then at his pipe. He took another great draw on it, coughed, then grinned as the smoke roiled out of his mouth and nose.

"The faerie gave you this?" he asked.

Alhazred nodded.

"Grows on the island, now, does it?"

A wide grin spread over the Persian's face as he nodded. Logan thought for a moment more.

"Seems a fine thing to keep-" He was cut short by a sudden flash of light as a set of shining silver claws tore a hole through a patch of reality itself. The hole widened and a small, amorphous shadow stepped through. Weapons were drawn and everyone save the Captain had readied themselves for a fight when Logan suddenly stood up, his arms out in a halting gesture.

"Whoah, whoah, whoah, whoah, whoah...whoah...whoah. Tell me I'm not the only one who just saw that?"

The moment hung in the air for an eternity; The silence was broken by the figure's voice, cool and confident.

"You would do well to have them lower their arms, Captain, for I am friend to you and yours." he said as the rift closed behind him, its eerie outline fading back into blackness.

Logan squinted, recognizing the shuffling gait.

"Kiral?" he asked, and the figure approached, obliging him by stepping into the firelight.

"It is indeed." came the response. The old man's appearance hadn't changed much since the last time Logan had seen him. His deeply colored robe was wrapped loosely around him, and his hood did little to hide his kindly features. A long staff was held in his right hand, the rings atop it jangled musically each time it touched the ground. He bowed slightly, his hands forming a gesture of peace. "I am glad to find you well, Captain Logan."

"You do like to make an entrance, don't you? Come, sit, and have a drink with us. The night is yet young!" He called, gesturing for his men to stand down. He kicked a crate in the newcomer's direction. It was stopped by a swift movement of Kiral's staff.

"I am not here for merrymaking, though there will be time enough for that upon our arrival."

Logan tilted his head.

"Now, I may be drunk... in fact, I'm fairly certain I am... but did you just say our _arrival?_"

The old fellow nodded.__

"Where are we to be going?"

"I have come to extend you a proposal."

"And what might that proposal be?"

"I am extending a formal invitation to the Hengeyokai in return for your services."

"My Lassie's in no shape for work, friend. Otherwise I'd surely _(hic)_ consider." The Captain slurred.

"We can assure the repairs to your ship if you are willing to come and see what we have to offer in return for what we would ask of you. If you still do not wish to help, then we will send you on your way." Kiral said.

Something in the man's voice caused Logan to stop. The last had been spoken almost like a plea for help rather than a business venture. He studied the strange, almond eyes of the robed man and a sudden shock of absolute clarity tore through the drunken haze until a single, sober thought rose to the surface: For whatever reason, they _must_ help this man. Logan blinked a few times, looking around. He checked the bottle in his hand, then took a swig.

"Gorram faeries… you'd think she could send a pigeon or something. No, no, she's gotta go givin' me headaches and _(hic)_ killin' me buzz…."

Kiral stared at Logan for a long moment, then began to speak. Logan cut him off.

"And just how _(hic)_ do you intend to get us there?" he said.

"However I must." Kiral replied, stepping carefully to avoid the debris on the deck and swiftly making his way in the general direction of the helm.

"Now just hold on there, boyo. You're surely not expecting to just _(hic)_ step aboard and take command of my _(hic)_ ship." said Logan, the beginnings of a growl in his voice. Kiral stopped and turned, slowly, to face Logan. He closed the distance between them and stared into larger man's eyes, His gaze unwavering and steady.

"No, _Captain._ I am merely offering you the assistance of Beast Courts. We can repair your ship and resupply you, if you are willing."

Logan laughed.

"Aye, aye. I'm sure you can – but at what price? I'm no fan of indentured servitude, and we've got precious little else to bargain with."

"Let us simply say that you have captured our attention." Kiral called over his shoulder as he resumed his progress towards the helm. Logan followed, guiding himself along the ship's railing with one hand.

"So how, precisely, do you expect to get this heap moving again?"

The wizened face creased in a cryptic smile as he seated himself in front of the great wheel, laying his staff across his crossed legs.

"I will worry about that." He said, shutting his eyes and allowing his arms to rest on his staff.

Logan opened his mouth to speak when the deck beneath him shifted, the entire ship giving a great lurch. He lost his balance and stumbled, catching himself on the railing only to have a second lurch pitch him over the side. He hit the water with a graceless splash, resurfacing a few moments later and shouting incoherent curses. He was back onboard within a few moments, glaring at the old man as he shook himself dry.

"My apologies, _Captain. _It has been some time since I have moved anything quite this big." Kiral apologized.

"One more stunt like that and it'll be the last time you move anything at all!" Logan swore, pulling his hat from his head and slapping it wetly against his thigh, emptying the seawater from it.

"Bloody Magicians. Faeries. Why is it that every time you people get involved I get soaked?" he snarled as he shook his coat dry before donning it again.

Ezekiel snorted.

"It's not intentional, I assure you. Have you ever smelled wet dog your size?"

This drew a round of laughter from the assembled pirates as well as a dirty look from Logan, which quickly devolved into a conciliatory nod as he rejoined his crew.

"Well, it seems that Kiral will be helping us to reach port while we drink, cavort, and generally fuck off for the entirety of the voyage. Everyone keen to that?" He said, seating himself near the small fire to dry himself more readily.

There was a general chorus of assent as the casks were tapped, glasses were raised, and praises sung to Kiral, the Beast Courts, the rum, the chef, the ship, and their missing first mate Koro, about whom they promptly improvised a song. When Koro joined in, none could have said, though there was a moment when each of them realized that the great stoic islander was there among their number, singing along in his great, gliding basso. The song ceased to be about Koro and became about each one of them in turn, the verse changing to glorify each of the crew as the song went on, with a rousing chorus dedicated to the ship itself. After the final chorus had been sung, they sat, one by one, in their improvised places by the fire, most relighting what device they had been smoking from and falling to their own silent thoughts. Koro, still somewhat inebriated, continued humming a steady tune. The deep thrumming of his voice permeated the background of everyone's thoughts until they fell, one by one, into the deep and dreamless sleep of the very drunk.

The next morning came with astonishing speed, each of the crew felt themselves awake as if from the sleep of only a few minutes despite the sun's high rise into the sky. They awoke suddenly, and within a few moments of each other as though by some innate alarm.

They stood from where they had fallen asleep and each realized in turn that any attempt to straighten anything up was ultimately futile. Alhazred reached for what was left of his brick, filling the first thing he could reach. He lit it, took a great draw, then passed it to Sanya. He repeated the process with each device he found within reach until everyone had their own. Silence prevailed in the chill air, even the talkative Mage found the close wrap of his robes preferable to conversation. Kiral had not moved during the night, and remained at his post without sound or motion to betray his presence. The ship was still moving, smoothly, and at a rapid pace through the dark water that surrounded the ship. The air had become the crisp, clean cold of new winter, each breath feeling as though new life entered in to clear out the fatigue that had beset them after the skirmish. Ezekiel huffed a few words and a fire rose to life from the pit, assisted by a few pieces of broken lumber that were kicked in as quickly as they could be reached. A bottle of mead was produced, mulled, and passed from person to person. As they drank, each of them felt a warmth spread immediately from his belly to his bones, and any effects they had felt from the night before seemed to vanish as if they had never been. The remnants of last night's feast, while meager, proved to be a fine breakfast; Even Koro seemed satisfied with the meal. They were just finishing up when Sanya finally broke the silence.

"Land Ho."

Everyone stared at him. He looked back at them resolutely.

"That is the expression, yes? Land Ho?" he asked, pointing past the Captain's shoulder.

Logan nodded, then stood and turned about to see for himself. An island had appeared from the mists ahead. It rose from the sea like the back of some gigantic creature, the mottled green of the forest that covered it enhancing the illusion from a distance.

"I believe this may be our destination. Right then, I want everyone in the best clothes you got. Come on, right now. First appearances are important!"

"Captain, the boat is torn to shreds… how is wearing nice clothes-" Ezekiel began.

"_Scariest_ clothes, then. Let's at least make sure we make a _**big **_first impression." Logan replied, cutting him off with a dismissive wave of his hand.

"Now go!" he said, his voice ironclad.

Two hours later, the crew of the Luna's curse had gathered on the deck of the ship. The crew was resplendent, each of them dressed in the finest they had; every inch of leather had been oiled, every blade sharpened, and every gun loaded. They had attained the island with frightening speed; what had loomed in the distance now towered overhead. The curse had been on a quick and steady course for the center of the island, and upon closer inspection it became clear that there was a natural channel into the island itself that opened into a great chasm overhead through which they could see snatches of sunlight and sky through the forest canopy above. The cold receded upon their entry into the great canyon, the walls shielding them from the winds that had driven the chill of the morning into their bones. Only Logan seemed unaffected by the cold, though he could occasionally be heard muttering comments about the northlands under his breath.

The further downstream they went, the more narrow the gap overhead became, the sunlight no longer able to find its way down to the ship. They traveled in an eerie grey stillness, even the water showing no ripple to betray their presence. The crew stood steadfast in their positions, but a growing sense of unease had found its way into the pit of their stomachs. They shifted unconsciously, the shadows demanding some motion or other from them however unwilling. Their muscles tensed, and Logan himself had found a growl rising in his throat when the sky opened above them.

The bright sunlight blinded everyone momentarily, and even the Captain shielded his eyes in the glare. When their vision returned, they were greeted by the sight of a massive, stately Japanese temple cradled by a natural cove in the rock. It was built around a waterfall that was fed from somewhere above and behind the opening, the sunlight fracturing into a million hues before bathing the alabaster temple in shimmering, shattered light. The effect gave the temple a surreal, almost ethereal look; The effect was not lessened upon their entry into the harbor beneath.

As the dilapidated ship slid smoothly through the small port, its stately crew received several long glances and more than a few sniggers as DuMourne's composure broke entirely. The wizard began rushing about the railing, pointing and questioning as they glided along.

"Look! It's another one of you! It's a …_**lot**_ of you….what the hell is that? Ooh! I've never seen one of those! Captain, Al, you have _got _to see thi-"

_**"MISTER DUMOURNE." **_ The captain fairly roared.

"Get your arse back to your post before I damn well _feed_ you to them!" he finished, glaring at the mage with a murderous eye.

DuMourne slunk back to his spot and stood once more at attention, but not without a sigh of regret. Despite Logan's quick reassertion of command, the ship was now drawing much more than its fair share of attention. By the time they had reached the empty dock, a small crowd of curious onlookers was following from the shore. Their curiosity was quickly repelled when they caught sight of the man tending the dock; Despite his rather unassuming appearance, none would come near once they were aware of his presence, and left as quickly as they had come. He was of average height, with a very well-muscled form concealed within a simple leather Gi. The sunlight reflect brightly off of his freshly shaven head, and the arm that caught the rope Logan threw down was embraced in a long, detailed dragon tattoo. By point and gesture he and the Captain communicated the tie down, and after the ship was firmly anchored and docked, Kiral rose from his position at the helm. He stretched and yawned, the unearthly shapes fading from his face and skin as he descended the stairs to rejoin the rest of the crew.

"I trust the journey was to your liking." He inquired, addressing Logan.

"It was not; I was soaked to the skin." Logan snorted back.

"You never changed into dry clothes?" The older man asked, cocking an eyebrow in a puzzled expression.

"Of course I did!" Logan replied, his face growing redder.

"An hour ago." Koro interjected.

"You stay out of this." Logan called over his shoulder. "You're far too naked to understand such complex clothing problems as seawater…salt….sweat…cracking leather…er…anyway, yes, it was fine." He trailed off.

Alhazred and DuMourne were positively shaking with mirth as the two bantered back and forth. They followed as Kiral led their Captain down the gangplank to the dock. The bald stranger nodded at each of them as they set foot on the seasoned wooden planks. As soon as they had all come ashore, Kiral addressed them all.

"Gentlemen of the Luna's Curse, welcome to the White Crane temple of the Hengeyokai, or Beast Courts, in your tongue. This is a peaceful place, and weapons are to be peacebound before they are worn in public. Now," he said, with a gesture to the stocky fellow to his left "I would like to introduce you to Aanji. He is partially responsible for your presence here and completely responsible for my finding you."

The crew murmured a series of grateful responses to which the monk politely bowed. Kiral caught his attention.

"So, Aanji, how goes my young pupil's training?" Kiral asked.

The Monk smiled and pointed in a westerly direction.

"He is in the circle now? Tell me you haven't been working the boy too hard in my absence."

The half-joking inquiry was met with a noncommittal shrug. The older man shook his head and started up the path Aanji had indicated. The crew, unsure of precisely what to do with themselves, followed, marveling at the sights as they passed. The path was apparently dedicated to outdoor training and sparring, predominantly in unarmed combat. There were rings set up every hundred feet or so, and each had a small gaggle of spectators gathered to watch the event. They were able to see much as they walked, however, and Ezekiel lost no time in catching up to Kiral and barraging him with questions about everything- and everyone- they passed.

"What was _that_?" he prodded, pointing out a group of strange looking beings in one ring; They were reminiscent of the great battle form that Koro took on, though with a considerably slighter build and a more tan color to their hides. They fought in swift and brutal motions, the slap of flesh quickly giving way to the breaking of bone.

"Those, my young friend, are Same-bito. They are the cousins of your friend Koro, though considerably more peaceful than many of his folk. Not that that says much… to say a shark is peaceful is not to say that it is safe. We tend to listen carefully to what they have to say from a safe distance." Kiral opined.

"I thought all weapons were peacebound here." The wizard pointed out.

Their attention was drawn to a great commotion as the match reached its peak; The smaller of the two had gambled on a rushing strike and lost; The larger fighter took the blow but managed to retain his feet, whirling to grip his assailant by the shoulders. The nightmarish face stretched as the mouth opened wide, then shut upon the face of the now-subdued attacker. The inhuman scream arced above the trees before the screeching figure was dropped, twitching and involuntary shifting back to homid on the soft, earthy ground of the sparring circle. The injured youth clutched his face in agony, inarticulate moans escaping his throat. Monks stepped in quickly to administer treatment as the victor walked away, unhurriedly escorted by a small cadre of hangers-on.

"Let that serve as a warning: It is impossible to peacebind one's teeth." Kiral said, simply.

Ezekiel shook his head soberly.

"Worry not, my friend, for that is their way, and their way is not our way." The old man fell silent as they approached the ring at the end of the path. A large crowd had gathered around the ring and several among them seemed to be clandestinely placing wagers on the outcome. There were shouts of encouragement to the two in the ring, and as Kiral approached the crowd parted somewhat to allow him a view. The crew formed a loose cluster around him, each finding a comfortable spot to view the action from; the rivalry between the two combatants was clear.

The two youths faced each other, pacing swiftly about. The almond eyes of the Japanese youth seemed to be laughing beneath his flaming red hair, goading his opponent to come forward while his quick step kept him just out of his opponent, a stocky youth with a short, black ponytail. His opponent struck first, and from there, the fight became perfectly matched. For each blow, there was a block; for each swift kick there was an equal reply. Koro grunted his appreciation and the others nodded assent; No more needed be said. There was a flash of red hair and a blur of motion before the stocky youth found himself on the ground beneath his adversary's heel. Confused, he tried to dislodge the offending foot, but met with no success. After a few more futile gestures, he reached up and tapped the leg, shouting his yield hoarsely.

The red haired youth released his opponent and raised his arms in victory, the assembled crowd sending up a collective cheer; even the crew joined in. The youth turned and reached to help his fallen adversary; The stocky youth took the victor's hand, then, smiling, shifted into Crinos while simultaneously aiming a vicious kick at his chest. The red-haired youth, while caught off guard, was not completely unprepared for the attack; his own shift was swifter, and finished before the kick landed.

The slender aspect of the youth's frame remained, however, his face lengthened and splayed into a short, grinning, red-furred muzzle. The fur spread over his body like wildfire, a bushy tail descending behind him and his pawlike hands were already in motion as the claws in them grew; he caught the speeding foot before it met its target, using his sudden shift to add momentum to the blow. A swift movement of the left hand produced the short strip of paper lined with several symbols he had palmed, then with a much more forceful motion slammed the paper into the sole of the opponent's foot. The reaction was instantaneous, A bright spark illuminated the place where foot and palm connected for a brief instant; the Garou jerked violently for a moment, then lay still, the smell of scorched hair, ozone, and urine filling lingering in the air. Kiral's voice split the air like a thunderbolt.

_**"Kairyu!"**_

The response was instantaneous; The young Kitsune's ears flattened, but he stood erect and unapologetic. He shifted back to his homid form, his hair falling in his eyes. Kiral stepped forward and faced the young man.

"Why did you use your gift against Sasuke?" he demanded.

The youth stood his ground resolutely.

"His attack was dishonorable, Sensei Kiral-dono." His voice was deceptively soft, the timbre belying his even more than his looks. Even so, it carried a conviction that was truly unshakeable.

"To have that in your palm was dishonorable also!" Kiral shouted.

"I was defending myself. I used the force I deemed necessary to prevent his attack."

Kiral smiled and strode over to the boy.

"And so you did. Nothing truly hurt but his pride, I suspect. Well done."

"Aye, laddie. I don't see that kind of thing often." Logan said. "Well done indeed."

The youth fairly beamed from the praise, but managed to resign himself to an elegant bow.

"Your kind words are an honor to us." He said in lightly accented and perfectly fluent English, not without a hint of pride. His response had the sense of a ritual that had been performed to the point of unconscious repetition, yet still held a bone-deep meaning to him. Logan extended his hand and the youth, after an odd look at the obviously unfamiliar gesture, took it.

"Name's Logan. I'm the Captain of the Luna's Curse and this-" he gestured to the assembled pirates "-is my crew."

"I am Kairyu Sagara."

"Nice to meet you." Logan nodded then turned to Kiral with an irritated look on his face. "Now forgive me if I'm repeating myself, because I'm quite certain I am, but _where in the seven spirals are we_?"

Kiral laughed in answer and gestured for them to follow. He then led them on a short tour of the city that surrounded the great temple pointing out various places of interest. It was small, with densely clustered dwellings that opened into a central marketplace where a combination of taverns, shops, inns, and street merchants sold their wares. They wasted no time in making their way to Kiral's dwelling, which was quite near the entrance to the temple itself.

It was a humble dwelling, though the richness of the material made it clear that it was a place of no modest means. A finely crafted sliding door in the manner of a dojo was opened to reveal a floor in much the same style. The furnishings consisted of cushions surrounding a low wooden table. The table was large enough to accommodate several people, and was set with what seemed to be a game in progess that consisted of moving colored tiles, the apparent object of which was capture the single tile decorated with a white lotus. Aanji and Kairyu exchanged a knowing look, then immediately sat down opposite each other and resumed their game. Ezekiel became quickly absorbed in watching, asking questions as each move was made. Alhazred exchanged a few quick words with Logan, then left in order to explore the surrounding port, grabbing Sanya on his way out and dragging him wordlessly along despite halfhearted protests. The Captain laughed at the pair, then turned to Kiral, who cocked his head to the side.

"Where did you send them? You have no need of an inn or meals, and we are resupplying your ship." He queried.

"To find a pub." Came the matter-of-fact response.

This met with an odd look from the old man, which quickly devolved into gesture of mock dismay.

"Is drink the only thing you are concerned with?"

"No. I also sent them after _geisha_."

This set them both laughing in the manner of old friends enjoying a familiar fight, then Logan clapped the shorter man on the shoulder. Kiral gestured to the other side of the table, where Aanji had prepared a pot of tea and placed cups in front of three cushions. They sat, Logan produced his pipe and filled it as Kiral filled their cups, pouring the tea over a single sugar cube placed in the bottom of each cup. The tea was a rich, fragrant tea that lent its smell and warmth throughout the room before it had even been sipped. The Captain grinned and looked up at the older man.

"Looks like we're back to square one. Only this time, we're drinking tea and it's you that has a story to tell."

"So it seems." Nodded Kiral. He sat heavily on the cushion as if weighed down by the realization.

"Then I suppose" Logan replied, striking the match with a deft motion of his thumbnail and puffing the pipe to life with a few swift breaths, "You'd best begin."

"What do you remember, Captain… of Alfred MacDowell?"


	9. The Birth of a Black Spiral Dancer

"_Captain Alfred MacDowell, you have been found guilty of Treason against the Crown, and are therefore sentenced to transportation. You will be stripped of rank and station, your citizenship is revoked, and your property will be sold with the proceeds going to replace the ship you lost. You are to be taken to the Australian Territories, and are forthwith banished from all other principalities of the Empire."_

MacDowell threw himself against the chains, the harsh iron digging into his skin..

"NO! You do not understand!It was Logan, not I! Lo-"

He was cut off as a club struck him across the chin. Blood poured from his mouth and prevented any further speech. The Red-coated guard hauled him to his feet and escorted him roughly from the room. MacDowell suddenly turned and spat in the guard's face, obscuring his vision. He looped the chain roughly around the guards neck, snapping it with a quick motion of his wrist. The cracking of bone was the last thing he heard as blackness overtook him.

He woke slowly. Each piece of him seemed to come back as he thought of it; memories of days toiling under a hot sun left their imprint on a forehead slick with sweat. A pain in his lower back became a patch of flesh and blood that was a back, and a burning, lingering pain that shot through his chest reminded him of the scar that lanced through to his back. His heart remembered its purpose again, and with its revival came the rest of his senses.

Sound was first, a gentle tap-tap-tapping of water filling his senses for a moment until his eyes cleared their haze an found its source: A bowl, next to the bed, catching water that was falling from a leak in the ceiling. Instinctively, he reached for the bowl, the cool liquid dousing some of the fire in his brain. He looked around; he was naked, save for the sheet that covered his lower body, and the room was sparsely furnished. He remembered where he was, then, and slumped once more. He dropped the bowl and pulled his hair out of his eyes, seeking for the bottle he had left unattended the night before. Finding it, he pulled the cork out with his teeth and took a few grateful swallows. They brought the fire back, but they also numbed the sore muscles. He stood, casting off the sheets and reaching for his clothes.

The merchant ship was small, but that did not make it any easier for one man to run it. He had managed to stay on course so far; but taking in the sail to sleep made progress slow. If he did not make port soon, he would need to ration the water, and at this rate it would not last. The food was less of a problem, but that was growing short in supply as well. That did not matter, he would die of thirst long before he starved.

Neither of these paths suited him. He had things to do...people to see. He strode upon the deck, bloodstains still visible on the deck. The bright moonlight reflected off of the dark patches like oil. He hadn't bothered to clean the mess; it was all he could do to keep the ship moving, never mind clean. He climbed up the stairs to the bridge. As he reached the Helm, he took a deep breath.

Alfred MacDowell stood at the helm of the bloodied merchant ship, head back, eyes aflame with fury, and a defining purpose in his movements. His dark eyes studied the horizon with an intense scrutiny, but the only thing to meet his gaze was the rough, black water. The chop of the ocean's waves beat out a steady rhythm against the hull. He shut his eyes for a moment, feeling the vibration, the steady hiss-thump of the sea...

_Alfred MacDowell._

The voice was like a whisper in his ear. He started, opening his eyes and glancing all around him in a vain attempt to find the source. Finding none, he Listened again, keeping his eyes open and all his senses alert.

_Hisssss-thump_

_Hissss-thump_

_Thump_

_Thbump_

__

bump

B_aBum_

_BaBum_

_BaBum_

_**BaBum**___

_  
__**ALFRED MACDOWELL**__._

The voice came again, this time a force that could not be denied. A whippoorwill lighted upon the railing in front of him and flicked its wings in a gesture commanding attention. A sickly, bluish green light emanated from the figure, and even the wooden railing seemed to shrink from the touch of its grasping claws. The rail turned black everywhere the figure touched it, seeming to wither and die before his eyes.

_You have great rage in your heart._

It was not a question. MacDowell stared at the creature a moment, mentally arguing with himself over the sanity in having conversations with glowing pigeons.

"Say you're right. Why do you care?"

_It shines like a beacon...and I can help you, Alfred MacDowell. I can save you. You do not have to die here._

"What's the catch?"

_Catch? _The spirit queried, then laughed.

_**I **__am the catch... if you accept my help, then you must honor me._

"A good deed deserves honor."

_Then I will show you the way, Alfred MacDowell...and from there, you will have the power to make your own._

The spirit flew up toward the crow's nest and out of sight before MacDowell had the chance to agree. He craned his neck, searching for the glow amidst the darkness, but he saw nothing. After a few moments of feeling irritated and foolish, he had just decided to mark the whole thing up to hallucination and leave it at that when the ship began to move.

A sudden lurch that dropped MacDowell to the deck got the ship going, and from that point on it kept a steady pace. MacDowell ran up and down the ship frantically in an attempt to discover what was driving the boat, but met with no more success than his sails had with the wind. Within the hour, an island had crested the horizon, and was getting closer with every passing moment. MacDowell showed his teeth in a ferocious grin; he would survive. He would find his way back to the world...and he would be sure to take a few others out of it.

As the island grew near, the unseen force directed the ship into a small cove that had tunneled into the side of the island. It was much larger than it looked from the water; the ship had no problem coasting right through the entrance into the grotto inside. Here the unseen force stopped, as if ordered, and the boat drifted on the current of the inflowing ocean. The sea's waters created a sort of underground river, and the boat drifted lazily upon it in a generally forward motion. The whippoorwill fluttered back into sight, buzzing MacDowell's ear in passing.

_Remember your promise..._

MacDowell snorted in surprise, then nodded to himself. The bird had delivered; so would he. After the better part of an hour, he saw a landing and made for it. As he came closer, he could see that it was obviously handmade and rather rickety. This did not bother him nearly as much as the cloaked figure standing on it did.

He was hooded in strange colors, blacks and greens and oranges with devices and strange symbols woven into everything. He stood with a stoop, holding onto a large staff, but MacDowell could see by his frame that this was not out of necessity. As the ship ground to a halt against the stony riverbed, the stranger spoke in a hollow voice.

"You are here to honor the spirit?"

The voice carried right to his ears as though the hooded figure stood next to him rather than thirty feet away. MacDowell steeled himself and answered in a hiss.

"Yes."

"Then follow." the figure thrummed. It stood placidly as MacDowell made his way across the boat and leaped the rail to reach the landing. The moment the haggard man's booted feet touched the wooden landing, the hooded figure began to descend the stairs.

The figure was no less unsettling for being closer, the robes shifting, swaying, and revealing nothing about the entity within. Its feet were unshod, but it moved with an ethereal grace over the rough stone floor of the cavern. Its voice carried around the cavern, seeming to come from everywhere at once.

"The Spirit has sought you out this night for a purpose. That purpose is now yours. As she has given you life, it comes with this price."

The figure led the way to the back of the cave, which narrowed into a tunnel. The tunnel was by no means small; they walked upright without incident.

"The Spirit says you are to dance the Spiral."

MacDowell stopped.

"The Spiral? You intend me to become a servitor of the Wyrm?"

"The _Spirit_" the figure said, sharply "is granting you a boon. The first you dance to honor She that brought you here and gave you life. The second is Her gift to you – you will be given the power to seek your vengeance upon those who have betrayed you."

The tunnel led to another large, open chamber. This was clearly a living area, with an ornate tent by the far wall and a fire pit dominating the center of the room. Meticulously painted upon the stone floor with the fire pit at its center was a huge version of the twisted glyph on the figure's cloak. It was done in broad, bold strokes It was next to the fire pit that the hooded figure sat; MacDowell remained standing out of habit.

The figure reached within his robes and threw a handful of herbs on the fire. As the dried matter hit the burning logs, the fire flared and began to take on a sickly green caste.

"Are you prepared to begin your journey, or do you wish to deny the Spirit Her rightful claim?"

The question rattled in his mind for a moment. All of his suffering, all of the pain and loss of recent days crystallized for him in that moment. He heard once more the damning voices of the Military Tribunal, felt the baleful gaze of the Garou council. His very identity had been taken from him, and the final face that graced his memory filled him with a red rage the likes of which he had never felt before. He let out an involuntary snarl as he spoke the words.

"I am prepared."

The room stretched and rolled beneath the pale light, the shadows adding dimensions to the room that gave the illusion of floating in space. The sparkle of odd gemstones added to the illusion, and suddenly, the only things that existed were Himself, the Hooded Figure, and the red pattern that had been upon the floor. The pattern seemed to absorb the surrounding light only to exude it in a red so deep that it seemed to be bleeding.

"The path is laid before you. You must be the one to take it." came the figure's command. He had produced a small drum and was beating a soft, insistent rhythm.

MacDowell stepped forward and onto the pattern in the spot the figure had indicated. The moment his foot touched the painted floor, the beat of the drum changed. It became more insistent, louder, the drum of a war dance. MacDowell felt himself irresistibly drawn into motion, his body moving in ways he had no control over. As his body traversed the intricate drawing on the floor, the smoke from the herbs had obsured all vision. He had become lost in the rhythm at this point. He was no longer himself, he was motion itself...until the beat suddenly stopped.

There was darkness. The great inky black of the deep places of the world had settled upon him. He felt that most ancient of fears creep upon him; Memories from a time when man was more the hunted than the hunter. He then rebelled against such fears, reminding himself that he _**was**_ the hunter, and all others would be the hunted. It was at the moment of this rebellion that the visions began.

The pain came first, a searing sensation that threated to shear his mind loose from its moorings by pure, psychic bombardment; Then the memories began to flow like blood from an open wound. He saw every malicious action he had ever taken, every cowardly act and misdeed...and every face of every victim of his claws. He was a murderer, a willing to do anything to anyone, having proved so by his many avaricious actions. The crushing realization of his terrible deeds weighed heavy upon him, but his rage fueled him to resist.

_No! _He thought. _I have had my entire world taken from me. I have done what I must to survive, and I will do what I must to take my bloody vengeance upon those responsible!_

With this final resistance, the visions departed as quickly and as painfully as they had arrived. The world gave a sudden lurch, and he faltered a bit as he found solid ground beneath him. He was free from the pervasive darkness; He was surrounded by a grand abomination of a hallway. Hanging lamps lit with a churning fire of the same sickly green color as before adorned the wall; every so often one of these would drip a bit of some of the noxious substance within in a small urn placed beneath it. The hallway lead to a large and ominous double-door reminiscent of a cathedral's entrance. As he approached, the door fell open with a large boom. It made no other sound as it opened; nor was there any other sound to be heard except for MacDowell's breathing. He stepped through the arch, following instincts that he did not truly understand. When he set foot inside the room, the doors shut with the same resounding boom.

The chamber was round, with levels upon which long stone benches had been carved in the style of the roman coliseums. It seemed he was to have an audience; the seats were filled with row upon row of what looked like indentured servants in a loosely formal strange glyph was painted upon this floor as well, and as he neared the point he began the dance before, he could hear his heart pounding in his head like a drum. He took this as a cue and stepped onto the spiral path once more.

As before, the trance beset him, but it was not blackness that came over him. As he whirled and spun through the eldritch motions, he began to hear voices. The accusations of the Military tribunal rang in his ears. The whispers of the Officals of the Garou Nation as they discussed his Harano and the possibility of the Rite of Scorn. Finally, he heard the heavy brogue of the Irishman's speech; It was then that the frenzy took him.

Everything was red. Blood red. Thick, deep red, like ink from a shattered paint stick flowed upon stone and fur and flesh. Claws rent flesh asunder and blood covered nearly every surface. Within moments, every single person that had filled the chamber had been massacred, with body parts strewn about in a hellish display of ferocity. The blood-soaked dealer of death was on the floor, his fur matted and soaked in blood, clutching the remains of a victim's jaw in his teeth. As the fury began to ebb, he spat the bloody mass onto the floor and began to return to his human shape.

He gazed around at the gory tableaux before him, feeling no regret.

_If this was their purpose, it would have been another to kill them if not I. Their lives will serve my vengeance, and I will be sure they do not die in vain, _He thought.

_An excellent attitude to have, _came the reply.

The whippoorwill had perched upon one of the stone benches.

MacDowell grinned.

"You were not exactly clear about the terms of our bargain. However, if this is what you ask..."

_You have performed admirably. I am well pleased with your work. So pleased, in fact, I think you may deserve a reward. After all, every good warrior needs a fine weapon..._

This last was spoken with barbs behind it; MacDowell did not acknowledge the veiled insult, he instead inclined his head in the slightest of bows.

"As you say."

_I will also see that you reach civilization; it would be a poor rescue indeed if I set you adrift.  
Return to yourself, Alfred MacDowell. The Spiral welcomes you._

He could hear the slowly building pace of a drum in the back of his mind. He braced himself, fearing another world-shaking lurch, but there was none. Instead, he found himself in motion once more, his body dancing unbidden by his will. The drumbeat had become steady, almost like a heartbeat, and slowly faded away. MacDowell's motion came to a graceful halt in front of the strange, hooded figure.

"You have returned from the Labyrinth, and are, now and forever, a Dancer of the Black Spiral. You have come through much and have much yet to overcome; I name you Weathers-All-Storms. The Spirit insisted that this be given you upon your return. Treat it well, such weapons are rare and not to be employed hastily."

The figure held out a pale hand in which was coiled a long, poisonous looking whip. It resembled nothing so much as a faintly glowing, toxin-oozing tentacle from some eldritch, Lovecraftian horror.  
It had an ornate handle of some strange stone, its angles seeming to fold back in upon themselves. It fit in MacDowell's hand as though made for him. He flicked it experimentally; it was light, easily controlled, and obeyed his command as though it read his thoughts rather than the motion of his wrist. He hooked it to his belt, annoyed that a true test of its abilities would have to wait.

"I will do as you ask."

"See that you do. The Spirit has given you great power this night. Remember that it is her purpose which you serve. Until she has design for you, however, you are free to do as you please." the hooded figure bowed, and, evidently considering his purpose fulfilled, took a seat by the fire and would say nothing more. Weathers-All-Storms turned his gaze back toward his ship.

"Alright, Spirit. Take me to port." he said, walking towards the rickety wooden landing with a bloodthirsty grin on his face.__


	10. The Maiden Voyage of the Blaidd Drwg

The first rays of the sun's light found their way into the old man's hut. The darkness within quickly retreated at its touch, and the hut was soon filled with bright of day. The light quickly spread to the rest of the sleeping village as he awakened; Sala was always the first to rise after the hunting parties had gone in search of the day sustenance. He reached for his wrap on the wall, its emblazoned pattern interlaced with spiraling blues and whites signifying his rank as village elder. He donned it with a practiced motion, gripping his walking staff in his free hand. He stepped from the hut and was immediately seized from behind, a lash constricting around his throat in a caustic, viselike grip. Instinctively, he reached up to pry the offending coil from his neck, but his frantic efforts were to no avail. It moved and twisted like a snake beneath his fingers; For each coil he removed, another would take its place, only tighter than the last.

"Good morning." came a hissing growl from somewhere above him. A shadow moved across the roof of the hut, then a tall man in a raggedy long coat dropped to the ground next to him, the ornate handle of the whip nestled tightly in his right hand. His gaze burned with a feverish ferocity as he settled it upon the old islander, a terrible grin spreading across his features. He shifted in the sand, twisting the whip around his back and shoulders to pull the old man to his knees, then tightening the hold upon his windpipe.

"Before we begin, I wish to be clear. What I am doing now, I am not doing in order to get what I want from you. This -" He shifted in the sand, twisting the whip around his back to pull the old man to his knees, then tightening the hold upon his windpipe.

"I do for amusement." he said, leaning so close that his face was within a few inches of the old man's. "Now...you will tell me where the Redbeard went with my ship,or I will begin to get angry-and I can be appalling when I am angry." he finished, giving a final twist before releasing. The old man dropped to the sand, heaving through his bruised windpipe. He spat blood on the sand, giving the stranger no reply. Sala stood and leveled his gaze with the stranger, making no move to wipe the blood away or otherwise acknowledge his wound. He stared defiantly into the fearsome eyes of his tormentor with the obvious resolve to say nothing. A wide grin spread across the feral face as the whip was once again in motion. It looped around Sala's neck once more, the burning grip searing his flesh and mind once again.

"Ah, pride and martyrdom. What better ways to waste your life? Since you are in such a hurry to throw yours away, let's make an occasion of it!"

With this last, the stranger began to drag the Elder across the sand towards the beach. The last thing Sala heard was vicious laughter cutting through the calm air as blackness mercifully took him.

Sala was jerked rudely awake by a sharp slap across his face. Vision returned slowly, in shapes and colors that only gained definition after a few shakes of his head. The grizzled form of the stranger stood a few paces away. He had bound the Elder to one of the few trees that dotted the white sand of the beach. The sun shone directly in his face, making it impossible to completely open his already swollen eyes, and his split and bleeding lips had become dry and cracked from the heat. His throat burned, and his while his consciousness seemed ready to give way at any moment, the pain would return and force him back to himself. The stranger took a few steps toward Sala once more and looked him straight in the eyes.

"It seems the only thing you savages respect is _pain._" he opined, punctuating the statement with a glancing blow on Sala's ribcage. The air left the old man's lungs in a great heave, followed closely by a torrent of bloody vomit that left him wheezing, drained, and drooling into the reddening sand below him. Through the hellish haze, he realized that the stranger was not talking to him. The village had been gathered to witness the awful event. They stood, dumbfounded and cowed by the violence in the haggard stranger's manner.

"You have all seen me once. _**I KNOW YOU!**_" he punctuated each phrase with a sharp blow to the old man's ribs, ending the last with a fantastic kick to the jaw that sent teeth tumbling to the sand. The assembled villagers flinched at each attack, the crunches of bone drawing cries from a few.

"Some of you understand me. All of you _**remember **_me. You know me. You know who I came with. You know who _left_ with us. Now I want to know _**where they WENT**_!" he screamed with unbridled ire. His gaze bore through them with a venomous chill, rooting the crowd where it stood. Hardly a breath was drawn in the lengthy pause as he stared them down. None dared speak.

The whip was suddenly in his hand; it slashed through the air and caught the elder's face, scoring a deep gash into the flesh and before it withdrew its withering touch; Sala could not keep a cry from escaping his damaged throat. Several of the younger men leaped forward in rage to attack, but swift motions of the haggard man's wrist sent the whip their way. It moved like a living thing, intercepting them and dropping them to the sand before they reached him. He withdrew the whip and hung it at his belt as he crossed the distance between them in a few lengthy strides. He drew a short knife as he reached the first and slashed his throat in a fluid motion, never breaking his stride.

"Filthy little _Savages..._" he growled, gripping the second youth by his hair and shoving the blade brutally into his neck. As he dropped the twitching body, he reached into his belt and removed a small, glass ball from a protected pocket and palmed it, readying himself to deal with the last.

The last of the brave ones had found his feet, and was turning in the direction of his quarry when he was hit, full force, by the stranger's booted foot. As he reeled from the blow, the stranger swept around behind him and struck. Hands like iron gripped the youth's arm, and there was a snap followed by a hollow pop as it bent backwards. The howl of anguish that erupted from the islander's throat made the entire crowd take a step back, small gasps and cries emanating from some of them. The youth's howling was cut off as the stranger's hand clamped on his lower jaw.

"Know your place."

He forced the glass ball between the youth's lips, shoved him back, then drove the heel of his boot directly into his chin. The ball shattered, shredding the man's lips and tongue while simultaneously releasing the sickly green substance within. The crowd watched, transfixed by shock and horror as the vile fluid took effect; the toxin was not swift in its work. The skin sloughed off the young man's face, black lines eating their way through and into his flesh. Pieces of flesh dropped here and there as he convulsed, the smell of vomit, blood, and shite suddenly fouling the air. His darting eyes, no longer mercifully hidden behind eyelids, still managed to plead for help as his body was wracked by the spasms.; the cry from his throat no longer resembled anything human. The crowd wailed in place, shrieking and crying without moving from the group they kept. Many were sick at the horrible sight, but fear of reprisal or infection kept them at bay. There was a sharp crack as a particularly violent spasm bent the youth at an impossible angle, then he fell to sand in silence.

The savage eyes of the stranger turned towards the crowd with bloodlust roiling in their depths. His expression dared them to move as he bent to retrieve his knife from its gory resting place. None did. He cleaned the blade on the corpse's garment, then returned it to its sheathe as he stood. He turned back toward the hanging man, pulling his whip from his belt and letting it uncoil, the serpentine motion of the tendril sketching disturbing patterns in the sand.

Sala hardly looked human anymore; Blood covered his swollen and distended face in a mask of red, his eyes could barely open, and his body was a mass of cuts, bruises, and abrasions. He was still breathing, though it was shallow and labored. The whip sailed through the air and snaked around the misshapen neck once more. The stranger began to twist in the sand, wrapping the whip in and intricate pattern around himself; the caustic grip tightened and rippled as he did so, the unmistakeable sound of bone grinding on bone filling the still air. Sala began to scream, his throat barely able to accommodate the volume it was achieving. The scream was cut short as the end of the whip shoved itself down the elder's throat, effectively silencing the harsh noise. Sala jerked and twitched to no avail; A piercing crack signified the end of his life, his head rolling limply to sag on his deflated chest. The Dark Stranger turned to address the stricken crowd once more, letting the whip fall around him as he straightened once more to his full six feet.

"I say once more...and once more only. Make no mistake. I will take your lives, burn this village, and find them with or without you. The fact that you are the most convenient means to my end is the only thing that has kept you alive – so tell me what I wish to know, or I will _erase _you from _existence. _Now,_ where_..._did_..._they_..._**go**_?"

He punctuated each word in his final question with a step closer to the crowd, close enough that they could smell the blood on his breath.

A young girl edged her way forward, speaking frantically in her native tongue. Her tear-streaked face twisted with emotion as she spoke, hysterics threatening to overtake her, but she forced herself to continue. The haggard man listened intently as she spoke, then turned to the nearest of them.

"Translate." he said.

The man he had spoken to looked at him uncomprehendingly. After a moment's pause, the dagger flashed into view again and blood spattered across several faces as the bewildered man fell like a stone to the ground. Turning to the next person, he spoke again, gesturing with the blade.

"Translate."

The elder man behind him stepped forward and spoke in a thready voice. The stranger turned, but the blade retained its position.

"She say they follow the Traders. They look for gold. They come here once, but no more. Never come again. You find traders, you find them."

A wry smile worked its way across his face.

"Out of the mouths of babes. Savage, dirty, little babes." he said, with a chuckle. "How do you know they won't return?"

"They tell us. They say too much danger. Not want us to be hurt."

A dangerous glint colored the feral eyes as the terrible whip uncoiled again. He stared into the eyes of the terrified islanders as he began to grow. His skin stretched and darkened, becoming leathery and black. His eyes took on a greenish cast and his hair grew long, dark, and sharp in places. He had doubled in size, sinking into the sand with the sudden weight. His face flattened and splayed, his last words becoming a guttural snarl.

"He always was a marvelous failure in his work."

The creature that he had become was as black as night, covered in bristling black fur. The sun's light seemed unable to penetrate it; the mass was shapeless until it moved. It was thickly muscled, yet still retained the lean, hungry look that the stranger himself wore. His jaws slavered, dripping a bilious foam that hissed on contact with the sand, and his eyes burned a translucent, poisonous green. There was a collective gasp of horror, then the beast sprang for them.

The screams began. They went on for hours, another rising to fill the void when one was cut short. They echoed for miles around, disturbed animals taking up the cry of alarm themselves. Many hours passed before the island became quiet again.

Weathers-All-Storms sat in a little rowboat, his clothing and face stained with blood and various other bodily fluids. He sang to himself as he rowed, the small boat having nearly reached the larger vessel that was anchored off the coast of the small village. The hunting parties would not return until he and his boat were long gone – and he had made certain that there was little enough for them to return to. He snorted, dropping the oar for a moment to scratch his face and wipe some blood from his cheek. He searched around the tiny boat until he discovered what he was looking for. He reached under the slat that served as a seat and rummaged until he felt his fingers clasp on the neck of a jug. Retrieving it from the seat, he popped the cork out with his teeth and spat it into the bottom of the boat. He took a few hearty swallows, then returned the bottle to its proper place. Soon enough, he would find the ship he sought. Then, there would be a reckoning. There would be vengeance.

There would be blood.

_Oh yes_, he thought, a fierce joy running through him like electricity.

T_here would be __**blood**__._


	11. Of Wolf and Sea

The moon shone down upon the glassy black surface of the water as a small rowboat glided smoothly along its surface, a thin trail of wake and the occasional dip of an oar the only things to betray its passing. It followed the curve of the island until it gave way to a natural cove, and it was here that the course of the intrepid boat was clear. As the tiny craft rounded the great stone wall that guarded the lagoon, a ship loomed from the occlusive fog that enshrouded the island. Its sails were drawn in, and condition of its hull gave it the impression of some feral animal that was readying itself to spring. The anchor chain glimmered, twisting up from the depths of the water below as if to restrain the vessel from taking its own course. MacDowell looked up at his ship and smiled, never breaking the pace of his rhythmic rowing. He pressed on, urged on by the nearness of his ship. He brought the rowboat alongside, taking hold of the rope ladder that swung from the deck. He tied a dangling end of the rope to the boat, securing it, then began ascending the ladder hand over hand, singing to himself in a low voice. His song stopped in his throat as he achieved the deck; His blade was instantly in his right hand, his whip in his left as he saw the figure seated in the middle of the deck with his back against the main mast. The newcomer sat with his legs crossed and head down, his long and unruly hair hiding his face from view. A polearm lay across his knees, the blades on either end drinking in the moonlight and casting unsettling shadows on the deck. He raised his head and stared at MacDowell through burning eyes; His voice split the silence like a whisper wrapped in a thunderbolt.

"You are not Sea's Fury."

The voice was strange, strong and clear, yet there was no accent to betray his heritage. Something in the voice made MacDowell pause, the fingers of his left hand wrapped around the handle of his whip.

"And _**you**_ are trespassing on my ship. Give me one reason not to drop you where you sit." replied MacDowell, a deep growl darkening his voice.

"You can't." the figure responded.

Two red points glittered for a moment beneath the tangled black locks as the newcomer swiftly stood, deftly hooking his foot beneath his weapon and tossing it up into his hand. He launched himself at MacDowell, the great blades singing through the air. MacDowell lashed out with his whip, attempting to disarm the smaller man, but to no avail; The Stranger's speed was greater, and the advantage was his. He struck MacDowell a glancing blow to the side of his face, scoring his cheek with a long slash that hissed as the silver did its work; He then slammed his heel into the larger man's knee, sending him to the deck with a massive thud and a string of curses. MacDowell rolled with the momentum, but before he could make an effort to stand, he was balked by the one of the twisted blades in front of his face. His own blood dripped from the edge onto his chin. He put up his hands in a gesture of acquiescence and looked up at his assailant.

"Alright, boy. You have my attention. What is it that you want?" he said.

The stranger swept the weapon aside and leaned down close to MacDowell, pulling his hair out of his face. For the first time, MacDowell realized that he was a youth, no older than twenty-five at best. His face was lean, and his eyes were scarlet storms of controlled rage. He would have been handsome were it not for his teeth; Row upon row of sharp, needlelike teeth protruded from his mouth with each word as he spoke directly into MacDowell's face.

"I want Sea's Fury."

The youth placed the fingertips of his right hand against MacDowell's face, pressing over his eyelids. A tearing, shrieking presence was suddenly there in MacDowell's head; a howling wind that seemed to tear at the moorings of his sanity until he was afraid they would come loose entirely. Memories flooded through him, too quickly to capture entirely; there was a sense of Searching, as though his mind were a great archive and this horrible, howling presence was its scribe. After what seemed like an eternity, an image came clear.

The Island, as it had been when last he had come here. The ship he had captained. The crew he had lost…and the pair that had done it all; Logan and Koro. The image of the islander grew until it dwarfed all else, and finally, mercifully, the youth released him. He reeled for a moment, disoriented, then glared at his attacker through slitted eyes. MacDowell suddenly spat a large mass of blood into the burning red eyes; The youth reeled, blinded, and lost his balance, stumbling a step to the side. MacDowell swept the youth's legs out from under him, and with a series of twisting movements brought the youth to the ground with a long knife at his throat.

"I myself would like a few stitches, a good brew, and a pretty whore; However, it doesn't look like any of these things are in the cards. Now," he said, dragging a deep gash across the youth's cheek with the tip of the knife. The youth showed no sign of pain, only stared balefully back at the Captain.

"What _are _you? Are you like him? Sea's Fury? Answer!" he said, pressing the edge to the exposed throat.

The youth smiled a fearless and unsettling grin.

"I am _hunting _Sea's Fury."

"That doesn't answer my question. What are you? Why are you hunting him?"

"I am Rokea. I serve the Enclave of the Sea' Leash – I am sent to retrieve Sea's Fury, or to kill him. Personally, I hope he puts up a fight. "

"Why? What did he do?"

"My reasons are my own."

"Fair enough. Why did you board my ship?"

"To find you. To find Sea's Fury."

MacDowell nodded.

"That, you've done. Now, here's a free lesson for you, boy, and be thankful I'm letting you live to learn it. Those that board my ship are either crew….or dead. Fortunately, I'm in a giving mood, so I'll let you choose."

"I see no crew."

"You're the first one I've given a choice. I am no friend to your "Sea's Fury." He was known to me as Koro, and because of him and those he travels with, I suffered great and unjust humiliation - for which I intend to exact vengeance. As long as you do not interfere with my greater plans, you are welcome to accompany me."

"Sea's Fury will be mine."

MacDowell nodded.

"I can allow that. As long as it's painful." MacDowell agreed.

"That, I can promise you. Painful and slow."

MacDowell stood, sheathed his dagger, and extended his hand to the youth. Shadow reached and took it, pulling himself up with surprising ease.

"Welcome, Shadow's Teeth, to the _Blaidd Drwg." _


End file.
